


Take Me Everywhere

by writing_practice, zanni_scaramouche



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Barbie AU, Barbie Dolls, Big Brother Louis Tomlinson, Famous Harry Styles, Famous Louis Tomlinson, Fluff, Humor, In a way, Life-Size AU, Light Angst, M/M, Previously A Doll!Harry, Romantic Comedy, Sharing a Bed, can't believe it's not crack!, more like lightly inspired by
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 18:47:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29423313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writing_practice/pseuds/writing_practice, https://archiveofourown.org/users/zanni_scaramouche/pseuds/zanni_scaramouche
Summary: Louis’ life moves a mile a minute as a growing pop-sensation. He’s used to the joyful screaming of fans as they catch sight of him on the boardwalk and the blinding lights of cameras snapping his every move, it’s part of the whole ‘famous’ thing he literally signed up for. What he’s not used to is his little sister’s Ken doll (m’names Harry,the lad insists) coming to life. Now Louis’ stuck trying to find a way to keep Harry out of sight and get him back into his box before people recognize his bright eyes and wide smile as the picture perfect boyfriend being sold in every toy aisle.The worst part? Harry was literally made to be the perfect boyfriend. And he’spretty.Louis’ a little more than fucked.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 68
Kudos: 194





	Take Me Everywhere

**Author's Note:**

> Wow! This thing not only grew legs, it jumped up and learned to fly! We posted this as a prompt to inspire other creatives, only to be blown away by the instant demand for a full fic. With something so fun and different from what either of us would write on our own, it only seems right that we collaborated ♡ Writing this has been such a crazy fun experience. We hope everyone who reads can feel the joy and laughter that went into it. xx -z and m
> 
> As always, these are characters and this is fiction meant to entertain.

Louis loves his little sister. Absolutely adores hearing her squeal with laughter as he picks her up and spins her around. He enjoys watching her discover new things on their walks and sound-out her way through new words. There’s something inherently awe inspiring about witnessing her learn the world and all it has to offer her. He’s seen it with every sibling he’s had, but Dorris is particularly outgoing and unafraid of the unknown. There’s also something about her being the last of his siblings he’ll get to share this with pulling at his melancholy heartstrings. 

All that being said, he could do without the meltdowns. 

“You know the rules, love.” 

An almighty wail bursts from Dorris directly into his eardrum with more force than a feedback loop during sound check. It leaves his ears ringing in a way he only really experiences when the crowd is particularly vibrant. He grimaces through it and unstraps her from the carseat. 

“He’ll be right here when we get back, promise. He’s not going anywhere.” 

“But—but— I wanna—” Dorris hiccups with big watery eyes as Louis plops her onto the ground and straightens her jacket. 

As gently as he can, which is not very considering her death grip, Louis eases the doll from her hands. 

“C’mon, you know better. No Harry in the market.” 

The rule came about after the glacier meltdown the last time he was home for a visit between recording his latest and heading off on tour. Dorris’ new obsession had been some doll all the kids in her class were getting for their birthdays, and it had gone missing somewhere between the buggy and the car. Hours. Louis’d had to come back after a tear filled night-night routine and search for _hours_ to find the smiling bastard sitting pretty under a crate of bananas. How he got there Louis hadn’t bothered to ask—not that a plastic toy would answer anyway—more concerned about not decapitating the doll as he’d struggled to pry him out of the tight spot. 

Working through these small moments of fuss was preferable to a repeat of that, yet Louis had a hard time being convinced of it when Dorris’ lips wavered like it was only a matter of seconds before another strop let loose. Louis grasps his last straw. 

“Don’t you wanna sing _Apples and Bananas_?” Louis tries to smile through his grimace. The words are his deathbed. 

Dorris sniffles, quieting as she thinks over the offer and casts judgement on its worth. “We can sing?”

Louis gives one last tug on the doll to pull it free from her impressively strong grip.

“Yeah, we can sing.” 

Dorris erupts with squeals of joy, clapping her hands and stomping her feet as her face scrunches in the exact way Louis’ done when he smiles for the fans. Louis sighs and tucks the forgotten doll into her carseat and closes the door, the brilliant white unaffected smile still visible through the window. Louis turns away not a second too soon to grab Dorris’ hand to make sure she doesn’t run off. She skips the entire way into the market. 

The people here know him well. They used to point after him and say he was ‘one of those Tomlinson’s’ on the street as he ran amok with his mates. Then they knew him as the kid who won the thing, a lucky one who got out of the small town and headed to the big city all because of some fancy talent show. Now there’s a framed photo of him in his favourite pub, a plaque with his name at the school he attended and learned shite all, and a whole lot of people his mum’s age who go _‘you know, the superstar lad with that song,’_ and then they abysmally attempt to hum his first hit single. It might drive other celebrities mad to visit their hometowns, but for Louis, he wouldn’t rather be anywhere else. 

A text pops up just as they’re heading back to the car. 

Nialler:  
_Sounding good, mate. Didn’t realise you were already coming up with new material._

Louis rolls his eyes at the attached ‘covert’ shaky cam video of him and Dorris singing in the produce aisle, his sister’s boisterous voice doing nothing to help his efforts to get through a subdued rendition in an attempt to be inconspicuous. He doesn’t bother sending his manager a response. 

When they return to the car with armloads of reusable grocery bags Dorris scrambles into her booster to reunite with her beloved Harry like he’s the brother that’s been touring the world for the past eight months. Louis rolls his eyes fondly as he buckles her in and starts the car, an amused twitch to his lips as Dorris makes sure to tell Harry about everything he’s missed. 

“Louis, who’s your bestest friend?” Dorris calls as the wheels start turning and Louis meets her round face in the rearview mirror.

“Oli, you remember him luv?” 

“No, I mean super bestest. Who you tell your secrets to and take everywhere.”

Louis shrugs as he navigates through the car park. Guess it has been awhile since he’s even talked to Oli, let alone hung out proper. Lad’s gone to Liverpool now and hell if Louis’ got a reason to be there at any given point. Between LA, New York, and London he’s barely on the ground as is. 

Dorris kicks her feet impatiently. “Lou, don’t you have one?” 

“Yeah, uh,” Louis switches his indicator for a left turn, “Niall. He’s with me everywhere.” 

Literally everywhere. Sometimes Louis half considers them married while on tour, never an arms length out of reach of each other when they’re running such a tight schedule. Louis’ lucky he has Niall to handle all the detail work for him. Left to his own devices he’d wind up blowing off every major radio station’s interviews to listen to someone else's story over a pint in the closest rundown pub. It’s happened, once or twice. 

“Niall’s the boss of you,” Dorris sighs like she’s just as tired of his lies as the man she speaks of. 

Louis chuckles with an edge of defence. “Hey now, I’m his boss really.” 

“No, he’s the boss of you. He can’t be your best friend.” She says as a matter of fact. 

She holds out her doll towards him, the shirt tugged to the side by her grip to reveal the chest tattoos Louis spent an hour sketching in during his last trip home. Dorris had been so excited by the small print on the box that boasted her doll as _‘the perfect boyfriend’_ , her understanding a little confused to assume only boys had boyfriends and likewise girls had girlfriends (Louis had sorted that out real quick, but she still insists Harry is just like Louis in that sector).

She’d then gone on to insist Harry needed tattoos like him, even begging Louis to replicate his own on the doll.

“They’re personal, love. Each tattoo is unique to the person it’s on,” he’d explained before relenting, just as everyone knew he would.

He’d spent several hours squinting over the doll with the finest tipped marker his money had been able to buy, taking inspiration from his own ink to give Harry matching pieces. For someone not overly drawing inclined, the designs are a point of pride for him now as Dorris waves Harry towards him. 

“It’s okay, you can share my best friend.” 

Louis smiles over his shoulder at the generous offer. “That’s okay darling, you keep Harry for now. I’m sure he likes you best.” 

Dorris snatches the doll back like she’d actually been worried Louis might have taken away something so precious. Louis nearly says something before the song changes on the radio and Dorris squeals. 

“Sing! Sing, Louis, puh-leease?” She begs adamantly as Louis’ recorded voice fills the car. 

Louis appeases her and turns the volume up a notch, singing a duet with himself for the rest of the drive home. 

There’s a California king bed waiting for him in a luxurious flat in London, and a decent amount of space for himself in the house in LA, but the queen mattress tucked into a small corner of Doncaster and covered in familiar blue flannel sheets are the only ones that feel like home. His mum has been working something crazy spearheading a fundraiser project Louis’ done everything he can to financially foster but let her passion take over to deliver, while Ernest is away at some boy scouts thing and the rest of the girls are staying with their father for the next week. 

It was Louis who offered to take over Dorris Duty for the days she didn’t have daycare, and he’s glad he did. The days together are a wonderful chance for Louis to connect with Dorris one on one with the empty home for the taking. 

Hours of running amok have left Dorris conked out for a nap and Louis on the sofa with his first baby resting in his lap, the time-worn acoustic he’d bought while recording the debut that launched his fame. That had been a whirlwind of trying to do the right thing. A thousand people pushing and pulling him in what they thought was ‘best for him’ at the beginning of his career. He’s finally shook people like that from his back with the gracious help of Niall and his talent for handing out blunt ‘fuck off’s’. Now the music sounds the way Louis wants it to, or usually does, but now… 

“Fucking Christ,” he mumbles under his breath as another chord falls flat. All evening he’s thumbed the strings in search of a way to complete the melody he’s attempting to compose and absolutely nothing has come close. 

With a sigh he rolls out his neck, stretches out his fingers, and attempts it again, going into the soft melody with gentle strums. It starts well, he can feel the inner vibration of the rhythm roll through him and this is it, instinct itches to take over and guides his fingers into the shape of something perfect, he knows before he even hits the strum to hear it—

“Louis!” 

The guitar lets out a loud sound of protest as Louis’ left hand flattens along the frets and his right strums too harshly with the shrill cry of his little sister. Before worry can fill him with fear, giggling bubbles through the hall. He gently places the guitar in its home as the thundering of her excited footsteps echo through the halls. He turns just in time to see her burst through the door. 

Every hair on Louis’ body stands on end as he jumps to his feet. 

“Who are you?” Curt anger gives force to his voice as he yanks Dorris closer to him at the sight of the stranger in the house. 

The lad has shiny curls and bright, eager green eyes. He’s looking at his hand that used to be holding Dorris’ much smaller one before Louis’d ripped her to safety. Louis’ heart pounds in his chest. He doesn’t know what the fuck a stranger thinks just walking into somebody’s house like this, but the implications that he’d been with Dorris while Louis’d sat unknowingly on the couch just down the hall makes his chest tight. Dorris tugs on Louis’ jeans now, bouncing on her toes with excitement. 

“It’s Harry! Louis, it’s really Harry!” 

“You take her doll? That how you got her to let you in?” 

“I was the doll,” the lad says with his own confusion like he’s not too certain of it himself. 

Dorris giggles excitedly, mock whispering like it’s a big secret she’s too excited to keep quiet about, “It’s him, Louis.” 

Louis squints at the intruder. His hair is impossibly shiny, the jaw line a decent imitation of the doll’s if Louis remembers right, his skin perfectly tanned under his soft cotton clothes that seem a little too tight and a little too familiar and that, above all else, is what sets off Louis’ anger. 

“Are you wearing me _clothes_?” 

The young man looks down at the trackies he’s pilfered, running a hand over the faded cotton jumper. 

“They fit quite well.” 

Louis’ eyes bulge. Dorris yanks on his hand. 

“His clothes didn’t fit him anymore, Lou.” 

Louis points at him accusingly. “Whatever you’re playing at is fucking twisted mate—”

“Louis! No swearing!” Dorris hisses in a mimic of their mum. 

Louis runs a hand through his hair, nearly pulling out strands as he fists it. 

The man pouts. “You owe her an apology and two pounds.” 

Louis freezes. He does owe that to Dorris, but there’s no way this lad would know unless he’d been following them, overhearing their conversations, and oh fuck—he’s got a fucking stalker in his house, that’s what this is. He reaches for his mobile to call the cops when the boy moves to high-five Dorris. 

Louis catches that wrist and yanks it close to his face, blood draining to his toes. 

“Impossible.” 

He stares at the lad’s face again, taking in the perfectly round shine in his eye, the arch of his eyebrows, the fucking beauty mark on his chin.

Louis lets go of the wrist like it’s scalding. 

“Strip.” Louis commands. 

The boy blinks before following through without complaint, unzipping the hoodie to reveal an expanse of perfectly tanned skin and ink. The boy doesn't stop there, looping a thumb into his waistband. 

Louis scrambles to get his hand over Dorris’ eyes despite her whine of protest at the manhandling. “Stop! Fuck, not in front of Dorris, are you mad?” 

The boy freezes, his eyes flitting to Dorris who’s squirming in Louis’ hold and complaining about two more pounds.

“She helps me dress all the time.” 

It doesn’t matter what Dorris may have seen of the doll. The tattoos inked all over this man were painstakingly drawn over hours. Hours Louis spent handling the toy, which means he knows every square cenitmetre of plastic on that thing. A glimpse down to where Louis’ trackies are pulled tight between the lad’s thighs tells Louis what anatomy the doll had lacked is _definitely_ no longer missing. 

Louis wants to fight the imminent truth becoming more likely with every passing second, wants to remain sane and rational, but the evidence is staring him in the face. Or rather, two swallows inked delicately into perfectly defined pecs—lopsided because Louis’ hand had slipped—are staring at him. And the anchor on his wrist, and the ship, and the rose. 

“He’s gonna be our bestest friend, we can go swimming and bake biscuits for mum and--” Dorris continues to prattle on, pulling on Louis’ slack hand until their fingers are twined and swinging it, talking about all of the adventures she wants to have with Harry.

With his free arm Louis blindly reaches out for something to steady himself and staggers when his hand meets nothing, his upset balance sending him sinking to the sofa with a harsh thump.

The lad’s face creases with concern. “Are you okay?” 

“No, I'm not okay!” Louis gestures wildly between the two of them. “I'm having a conversation with my little sister’s favourite Ken doll, who just so happens to be taller than me and we--”

“Harry.”

“What?” Louis asks dumbly, frozen in place.

“M’names Harry.” The lad shrugs with a shy little smile like he’s proud of his name. 

The inside of Louis’ mind goes blank with the sound of white noise.

Ignoring a problem until it goes away doesn’t work with dolls-turned-human, so Louis is quick to realise. Harry is a catastrophe. Everything he touches seems to slip out of his hands and break, errant elbows creating chaos as he curiously pokes newly opposable thumbs into literally everything. 

“No!” Louis snaps as he slams the cutlery drawer shut. “We don’t play with those, come on.” 

He guides Harry back down the hall. 

“Dorris has spoons in her room.” Harry states matter of factly as they turn into Dorris’ room. 

“My rose spoons!” Dorris gasps from the middle of the mess of toys she’s made in the centre of her unicorn rug, excited at the recollection of her cherished items.

“They’re toy spoons, for her toy tea set. We play with toys,” Louis explains while ignoring the high-pitched voice in the back of his mind still freaking out about the fact that he’s talking to a _doll._

“What makes the toys different from the not-toys?” 

“They just are, that’s what.” Louis grumbles as he thuds a shoulder to rest on the wall, needing the support to keep him from sinking. 

Dorris clambers out of her sprawl and easily takes Harry’s hand, showing him around like he’s on a tour of all her greatest treasures. With both of them distracted for the moment Louis watches, vague horror tensing his limbs and pushing his inner-spaz voice another octave higher. 

There’s a doll in his house. A living, breathing, talking doll. The urge to scream lodges like a stone in his throat that he forcefully chokes down. He’s the adult here. He’s not allowed to have a meltdown. 

The worst of it, not that any of it is truly good, but the absolute worst of it is that Harry, crouching down to admire each item Dorris shows him with genuine awe on his face, is really bloody attractive. 

Louis slams the door on that thought. 

He crosses his arms with fisted hands and squints his eyes. There’s gotta be a way to get Harry back to his proper plastic form. Louis’ just going to have to figure it out with the least amount of ogling as possible. 

“Really?” Harry gasps as he holds the plastic rhinestone tiara with the same reverence as solid gold. 

Dorris giggles and helps place it on his head, matching the one on her own. “Yes! Perfect!” 

Harry looks up to Louis with an overwhelmed smile and a flush of pride highlights the shine in his eyes. He looks straight out of a Hallmark, and an unfortunate amount of Louis’ wet dreams.

“I’m a princess,” Harry says with awe. 

Louis swallows thickly. Make that as quickly as possible too. 

Do dolls eat?

Is he really asking this question?

What the fuck. 

Louis pushes the back of his wrist against his forehead and wonders once he does if maybe the heat flushing his cheeks is because he’s in the midst of a strange fever-dream. He prefers it to the absurd scene he’s still trying to wrap his mind around. 

He weighs his options.

Either this is a fever-dream brought on by not enough sleep while on tour, or he’s actually watching his sister have a tea party with her doll that has somehow morphed into a tall adonis of a bloke with tattoos specifically designed to complement Louis’ own, defining already _very defined muscles_.

He waits for his mind to supply the obvious answer.

And waits.

And waits.

“Harry!” Dorris squeals into the silence where Louis’ answer should be, waving one of her toy spoons above her head. 

Harry beams and licks his thumb, staring in surprise when it comes away wet. After a pause he rubs it against Dorris’ nose.

“S’posed to eat the chocolate cake, not wear it!” Harry’s smiling and damn, if he can sing that voice would add the perfect dimension to the song Louis’ been trying to compose, deep and rich as the imaginary molten-velvety-chocolate-bundt-cake thing they’re pretending to eat. 

Louis’ stomach gurgles and twists. 

“Right,” he strains to say. _Enough of that_. 

Pushing his arse off the wall as his sister and the… doll… turn to look at him, Louis claps his hands together and rubs them twice, staring at the invisible food on the table. “C’mon, Dor and…” he hesitates, pushes it out with a wrinkle of his nose, “Harry. Time for food.”

He isn’t sure which of them gets up quicker, Dorris in her excitement for snacks or Harry in his eagerness to follow orders without question. Louis' jaw clenches, but he shoves the thought aside by shoving Harry in front of him and catching Dorris’ hand as they leave her bedroom. He puts Harry two steps ahead of them. Dorris catches Harry’s hand and turns it into one step.

“You _could_ have had some cake with us,” Dorris accuses, swinging Louis’ hand as the three of them squeeze onto the stairs side by side. 

Louis raises a brow. “What would mum say if we told her all we had was cake for tea?” 

Dorris whirls on him, shock painted over her face with so much drama Louis wonders if she’ll follow his footsteps into the entertainment industry. He’ll make sure she’s more prepared than he was, if she does. 

“But you said cake is the best snack!”

Louis grins with a wink. “Aye, but I never said it was the best snack on its own.”

“So we can have some real cake?!” Dorris bounces high enough to miss a step, forcing Louis and Harry to tighten their grip on her hands. 

They both raise their hands higher in unison and instead of tripping down the rest of the stairs, Dorris hovers between them, giggling, until they gently set her on the ground floor.

“What makes it real?” Harry asks, brows furrowing.

Great. The doll is a philosopher too. What did Louis do to deserve this? 

“It’s—” The grate of a key slotting into the front door from outside cuts him off. 

Louis’ head whips to the right. Grabbing Harry’s arm, Louis drags him to the coat closet just to the left of the front door and shoves him in. The closet door slams on Harry’s shocked face. Louis mashes his back against it, hands clenched white-knuckled around the handle digging into his tailbone. 

“Louis!” Dorris cries, rushing at him.

The front door opens in Louis’ face, the back of it touching his nose at it hides him from view. 

“Mummy!” Dorris cries, rushing at her. 

“Hey mum,” Louis cringes as she closes the door to reveal him. 

Mum blinks, startled to find her oldest and youngest congregated in the doorway. She’s got an armload of padded folders and a computer bag from a shift with the hospital fundraiser committee and exhaustion shows like frayed guitar strings on the edges of her face, but her features soften into joy a moment later. She drops the load to crouch and gather her youngest into her arms when Dorris launches into them.

“Hi, baby. Waiting for me to come home?” she murmurs into Dorris’ hair, hugging her close.

The handle jiggles under Louis’ sweaty palm, a low voice drawing out a single word laced with confusion.

“Heeey…” 

Louis clears his throat loudly when his mum and sister glance his way.

 _Dorris’ doll is alive, Dorris’ doll is alive. Dorris’ doll is alive and he’s a door away from mum._

“Heeey, mum.” His chin tips forward as he dips into a lower register to match the timbre coming from the closet. “We were just on our way to eat something.”

“Cake!” Dorris beams, bouncing when mum stands, arms flying up for mum to lift her. 

Mum’s eyebrow arches and she glances down at Dorris. Louis winces. 

“Cake?” mum asks. 

“Chocolate cake!” the closet cries out.

Mum peers at Louis in surprise then past him to the door in confusion. Louis tries a laugh on for size, but the squeak of it sounds like he’s swallowed a helium balloon. If he were seven bloody inches tall maybe it would have fit him perfectly. 

He thumps his hand extra hard against the door by his hip, then pats it twice, then drums his fingers against it.

“We were ah, enjoying chocolate cake with our cuppas upstairs.” He clears his throat. “Tea party.”

“You weren’t eating with us!” Dorris throws a finger at Louis, poking him in the stomach.

Refusing to move and risk Harry spilling out in front of his mother, Louis takes the full force of her wee finger right in the belly button, swallowing over a grunt when the perfectly-aimed prod sends a weird mix of _it’s fine_ and _fuck ow_ up his spine.

“And now you’ve put Harry in the closet!”

Mum shoots him the strangest look, her head swivelling between him and Dorris’ accusing finger as she tries to follow. Louis’ heart seizes. He wracks his brain frantically for something to say. 

“Well you and Harry weren’t saving me any.” He screws up his face in the best pout he can muster, nowhere close to as charming as the one Harry gave earlier but his mum’s always had a soft spot for his puppy eyes so it should still play into his favour. He knows better than to try and be subtle with Dorris because it’ll only make it worse, so he ignores her statement about _where_ exactly Harry is. 

Mum turns to Dorris and lifts her, settling her youngest on her hip.

“Well how about we find something to eat now? Just a wee bite before supper so you don’t spoil your appetite.” She flicks Dorris’ nose and lightly tickles her stomach. Dorris laughs, feet kicking as mum starts towards the kitchen. “And Boo, put Harry back upstairs when you’re done, alright?” 

Mum pauses in the kitchen doorway and sends Louis another look, complete with an arched eyebrow informing him his weirdness hasn’t gone unnoticed, but she’s not going to ask. Dangling in a strange limbo between very flustered and trying not to be flustered at all, Louis doubles down on weird and salutes without thinking, wincing the moment they disappear into the kitchen. 

Louis thunks his head back against the closet door. Takes a deep breath. With a shove he whips the door open and darts through the crack into the dark crevice and slams it shut.

Fumbling through his pocket for his phone, he pads through the lit up screen to find the torch button, turning it over and holding it up—

—straight into a chest centimetres from his own. 

“ _Jesus fuck,_ ” he gasps, the words out before he can think to keep quiet, thudding against the door. He lifts the light up to shine on confused green eyes just as close. “What the bloody hell are you doing?” he hisses.

Harry blinks. His gaze roams over Louis' features before he looks down at himself, then past Louis to the door.

“I’m stuck in the closet.”

For fuck’s sake.

His sister’s boyfriend- _butonlyforboys!_ -in-a-box doll has come to life and stated without any bloody snark at all that he’s stuck in a closet. This isn’t happening. Louis knocks his head back against the door again, palm flying up to put some space between them so he can think. He almost touches the firm chest covered in _his_ hoodie before realizing what he’s doing. 

His hand hovers. Harry eyes it curiously. 

Curling his fingers in, Louis drops his hand back to his side. 

“Was that really necessary?” he asks instead, impressed with his own ability to keep his voice steady.

A slow smile winds onto Harry’s face and fucking Christ all over again if the way Louis’ phone is angled doesn’t pick up the deviousness in the curve of his lips as he steps forward. 

“You putting me in the closet? Or me reminding you that you’ve put me in the closet?”’

Louis presses his back into the door, trying to put just one more centimetre between them.

“You’re a doll.” 

Harry blinks, glances down at himself. Curls so springy-soft they should only be possible after a trip to a bloody stylist tickle Louis' forehead. Louis forces himself not to follow Harry’s gaze down.

“No I’m not.”

“Not right _now_ you aren’t, but you are a doll. You’re me sister’s fucking doll and—” Thunking his head back into the closet door hiding them in the dark, Louis forces in a deep breath when his voice starts to rise, strained with hysteria. He can’t fucking think with Harry this close. 

Louis’ hand presses to Harry’s chest before he can stop it. 

Beneath warm muscles, a heart beats into his palm. 

Harry looks down at his hand, then back up to his face. Louis can tell from the corner of his eye but he can’t look away from his hand, trying to reconcile the steady, solid heat beneath his hand with the word ‘doll’.

“Louis…” The low drawl washes over Louis' senses, quiet and curious and confused. Louis' inhale is perfectly normal and even. His fingers curl into his own hoodie even as he pushes until Harry finally takes a step back.

Mind clearing because he’s blessedly regained the ability to breathe, Louis finally meets green eyes that are too clear, too candid, too genuine. Too alive. 

His hand shifts to stab a finger into Harry’s sternum.

“Look. This is how it’s gonna work. You’re going to be quiet. Mum is not going to find out you’re here. We’re going upstairs and you’re going to sit in me bloody room quietly until I get back. Got it?”

Harry’s brow knits. “And do what?”

“I don’t know!” Louis bursts. “Whatever dolls do when no one is playing with them!”

Fucking fuck on a fucking shit. That was not how he intended those words to come out to the perfect-boyfriend-ever-doll who is _very much not a doll right now._

Louis whirls around, phone angled down to find the doorknob and ignores the heat searing into his back as Harry closes the distance between them once more, hand brushing Louis’ side in the darkness.

“I’ll be quiet. Please don’t put me in the closet again, I don’t like being in here.” The quiet, plaintive tone caresses the back of Louis’ neck and he jerks the door open to make it stop. The air in the closet was too thick and hot and it’s made his lungs seize. 

Fingers fist in the back of his shirt and Louis ignores the way his heart skitters in excitement as he peers towards the kitchen, listening closely. The fridge door snicks open and he dares to dart forwards, Harry close at his back. They slip silently up the steps and into Louis’ bedroom. 

Louis can’t remember the last time he’s had a sneak around the house, coming in from a night out hours late or playing games with his other sisters when they were younger. Louis only realizes he’s grinning at the same thrill he felt in those memories when he glances up to find Harry mirroring his smile from where he’s wandered to poke at the shelves.

Reality knocks into Louis’ senses and he retreats towards the hallway, pausing to block the doorway. 

“Don’t leave, alright?” He doesn’t give Harry a chance to answer, firmly closing the door and making his way back down the stairs without a look back.

On the sixth step he realizes he should have said something about not touching his stuff.

Shit.

“Boo, you coming?” mum calls from the kitchen.

With a sigh, Louis forces his feet to move in the exact opposite direction his sanity wants him to go and for the first time thanks every bloody star in the sky that he’s never learned how to proper clean a bedroom. At least whatever mess Harry makes can’t possibly be worse than his own.

He really should have put Harry back in the closet. 

“Absolutely not,” Louis insists for the final time the next morning. “You can’t wear the banana shirt.”

Crestfallen, the boy's eyes shine with tears. “Why not?”

“For starters?” Louis raises his eyebrows and holds up the shirt in question, the item itself should really be enough evidence for his reasoning. “It’s clearly a crop top meant for Barbie, it would barely reach your navel on a good day. Secondly, you’re not seven inches tall anymore!” His voice grows shrill near the end, still a well earned amount of hysteria behind the fact.

The boy pouts and plucks the doll sized shirt from Louis’ fingers, pressing it against his chest like it’s something precious and not a shirt covered in phallic fruit. Louis has to close his eyes and count to ten to stave off the tantrum his irrational side has been threatening since the second Harry started walking. The counting reminds him that he needs to be paying more attention to the clock. 

“Okay Miss Dorris, seven minutes until take off. Have you chosen socks?”

Dorris thrusts bumble bee striped socks into the air. “My favourites!”

Louis knows she’s old enough to do this now, but he still kneels to help her with them and her shoes. 

“I want Harry to drive me.” 

“Harry can’t drive, he’s not got a license love.” 

“Is he gonna get one?” 

“He can’t, he’s not—” _real,_ but Louis can’t even deny that when Harry’s walking and talking and breathing right beside them, idly pushing around puzzle pieces of Ernest’s jigsaw. Louis leans in to speak quietly to his sister. “He can’t stay forever, Dorris.”

“Why?”

Louis starts tugging on her second sock to buy time. 

“He’s only visiting, he’ll have to go home at some point. It’s like…” he glances at Harry and the tropical beach scene of the jigsaw, “like he’s on holiday.”

“Holiday?” Harry’s head perks up from where he’s mashing buttons on the telly. 

Dorris gasps with excitement. “Holiday Harry!”

Louis rolls his eyes as she jumps up and grabs the knapsack mum had packed for her before rushing off to the committee meeting. With a quick swipe Louis manages to steal away the remote and shut the stupid thing off, a scowl on his face for the interview his mum probably watched last night for the ‘nth time. Why she bothers watching the rubbish they force out of him when she could just give ‘im a ring for the truth is something he’ll never understand. 

Louis tosses the remote onto the table and turns to find Dorris before she causes too much trouble. Harry tugs his wrist before he can step away.

“Do I get a new outfit too?”

And damn his hopeful eyes. 

A moment later Louis grumbles the entire time he flings through puddles of his wardrobe collected in the corners of his childhood room. He hasn’t planned on staying longer than a week because no matter the size of the house, his family has their own daily routines that no longer include him after the years he’s spent living abroad. The shortness of his visit means he hasn’t bothered to tuck away his clothes properly into drawers, living habitually out of a suitcase even in his own home. 

Said suitcase is exploded all over the floor. 

Louis’d been pleasantly and warily surprised last night when he’d returned to his room after supper to discover not a thing disturbed in his absence. Harry had been sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed like he was trying to make himself small, big round eyes latching onto Louis the moment he entered. 

Those eyes had been less pleased when eyeing the cleared out bottom of Louis’ closet stuffed with spare blankets and pillows.

“I don’t like it.”

“Just for the night, I promise.” Louis had said in an attempt to placate him, whatever would get him out of sight so Louis could get the fuck to bed and possibly wake up from the strangest dream he’d had the misfortune to land in. 

Harry’d stepped in and fluffed around the blankets until he was a grumpy pile of curls pouting up at Louis. 

“I still don’t like it.”

Louis’d let out a sigh and pushed down the guilt, gently sliding the closet door until it remained open a hands-width, just enough to still see puppy dog eyes that could put Fido to shame.

Now Louis’ regretting throwing all of his old clothes from sixth form into the mix with things spilling from his suitcase. Finally he pieces together an outfit of the loosest grey cotton joggers he has and—

“This one.” 

Harry’s stood by the window of Louis’ room with a garishly red Hawaiian shirt Louis once wore in a theatre production he prays isn’t captured in any digital way. 

Louis raises his eyebrows, quite a feat considering they’ve felt permanently raised since he first heard Harry speak. 

“I’m on holiday.” 

Louis narrows his eyes at the tilt in Harry’s lips suspiciously close to the smirk Louis knew he didn’t imagine when they were in the closet. Bloody doll has cheek.

It’s not until after they’re dressed and headed for the front door that Louis realises his mistake. 

“You can’t come with.”

Harry stops in the doorway, bare toes curling into the carpet as the cold air seeps through the open door. Louis forgot to get him socks. 

Louis hovers with his hand on the door handle, Dorris already gallivanting towards the car with her knapsack bouncing about. 

“Why not?” Harry asks with wide eyes. 

“Because you… your face!” Louis gestures. Harry’s brows pinch. “Your face is on cereal boxes and telly ads, you can’t walk into a daycare full of children.”

“I love children.”

Louis blinks, mind suffocating under the unfathomable consequences that sentence taken in the wrong context could have. 

“Not when their parents call the coppers on your arse.”

Harry wavers on his bare feet, shoulders slumping before he squints at Louis. “Your face.” 

“My face?”

“It’s on the telly, too.” And he looks so uncertain, his lips pulled tight, voice low and hesitant. 

Louis looks at where Dorris is yanking on the locked car door in rhythm to whatever obnoxious song she’s latched onto this morning, then back to Harry standing by the coat closet. 

How can someone possibly look so dejected in such a garish shirt? 

The car door slams behind Dorris as she runs towards the daycare. Louis’ heart lurches as she looks back and nearly trips face first into the concrete. She rights herself with a goofy smile and crazy wave that Harry returns with just as much vigor from the backseat. Louis leans in to speak through the open car window. 

“Stay here, don’t touch anything, I’ll be right back.” 

Harry’s smile dims a notch but he nods and that’s all Louis needs to step back and reluctantly leave Harry alone in the car with more buttons than the remote to press. 

Dropping Dorris off is a quick affair. Louis reminds her with every second breath not to tell anyone Harry’s actually human, and though he doubts how much her promise counts, he also knows there’s the slimmest chance of someone actually believing her doll came to life. If anyone can even hear her over the loud babbling of excited children greeting each other and yelling at their parents. 

Louis loves Dorris, but the noise brings to mind the claustrophobia of an uncontrolled crowd in a mall signing and he escapes quickly. He sits heavily with a sigh in the driver’s seat, enjoying the silence after the chaos like returning to the bus after a good gig. 

“What happens now?” 

Louis jumps with a gasp, hands instinctively raising in defence and slamming the horn. With a curse Louis cradles his elbow and wrenches around to see the culprit. How he forgot about the lifesize doll sitting in his backseat he’s got no idea. Harry sits innocently in his seat, all proper form and anxious expression.

“Now we go home.” Louis says without room for argument as he starts the car.

“Do we have to?”

So much for that. 

“No we don’t _have_ to. I want to.” 

“Why?” Harry says it with the same inflection as Dorris and Louis’ hands tighten on the steering wheel. He’s beginning to hate that word.

How can he explain the inability to walk down a street without being stopped several times? How to explain that Louis doesn’t dislike meeting his fans, he’s just not in a particularly social mood when he’s supposed to be on his own Holiday, away from the spotlight and noise of fame. 

Rain begins to dribble onto the windshield and Louis flicks on the wipers. A little sound of shock pulls Louis’ eyes to the rearview mirror, expressive eyes following the wipers from the backseat like a kitten following a string. A smile twitches on Louis’ lips at the innocent wonder.

It’s also impossible to ignore the blazing red Hawaiian shirt Harry’s still wearing, with its tight shoulders and top buttons that don’t close, and Louis’ reminded of how his trackies are more capris on the lad. Harry hasn’t seen much more than the house, and maybe it doesn’t really matter if he’s only going to drop back to plastic form at some point, but the look of wonder on his face is too close to the awe-filled fans Louis meets, their amazement too pure to stop feeding. 

Louis’s finger taps along the wheel before he switches on the blinker, turning off the road to home. 

“What the bloody hell are you doing?”

Harry freezes. His tongue remains stretched out towards his handfuls of messy taco already crumbling two bites in, and what odd bites they’ve been. 

It took Harry rubbing his tummy a few times as they got out of the car for Louis to think he was a tad hungry himself, and then realize Harry hadn’t eaten anything since becoming human, having spent supper in the closet. Louis’ not sure how much energy the yet-to-be-explained transformation took, but he’s drowning in sympathy for the lad that’s yet to eat a proper meal in his life. 

He drags Harry to the closest place with edible food. Well, edible if you know _how_ to eat, that is. 

“‘m eaf-ng,” Harry says, or attempts to say around a mouthful of taco. 

He better manages spraying the table with lettuce. 

He’s not really eating though, because Harry’s got the strangest habit of sticking out his tongue and bringing his mouth to the food instead of the other way around, like a tree frog. Louis can’t help but laugh incredulously as his own taco crumbles in his hands with every bite.

“You like tacos, then?” 

Harry stops mid bite, face scrunching as he eyes the taco like he’s contemplating the mysteries of the universe instead of salty beef in a corn shell. Slowly he swipes a finger through the creamy green paste lining the shell. 

“What’s this?” He shoves his finger towards Louis, who grimaces at the unappealing mush. 

“Avocado.” Louis fake gags with a twinge of guilt, realizing he should have warned Harry not to get it. 

Then he remembers Harry’s insistence on trying all toppings at once, alongside all the dips. There are five different salsas between them as is. 

Louis’ eyes widen as Harry pops the slime covered finger in his mouth, a content little hum and genuine smile on his face when he removes the clean digit.

“It’s fabulous.” 

Louis can only stare. The after image of Harry’s pink lips wrapped around his finger takes so long to fade that his taco is cold by the time he’s aware enough to take another bite himself. 

They manage to get into a shop without much trouble, Louis’ cap pulled low on his head and baggy trackies morphing him into the comfortable shape of any twenty something on a day off, not a pop-star walking around with his… Harry. 

“This one!” 

“Meant for women.” Louis sighs at the frilly blouse Harry’s wrapped his arms around and is peeking over like if he pouts enough it’ll change things. 

A gaggle of girls walk past them to browse the dresses a few racks over. Louis keeps his head turned pointedly away from them. 

“I’m not a woman?” 

It’s not the question that catches Louis off guard, it’s the genuine puzzlement on Harry’s face when Louis whips over to see Harry waiting for Louis to tell him what he is. 

Louis takes his time putting his words together so they come out just as slow as Harry’s. “You can be whichever you like, you don’t have to choose either if you don’t want.” 

Harry’s frown deepens with serious thought, the air around them singing with the gravity of Harry’s self introspection. 

“I don’t…” Harry starts then sighs, mouth open as he struggles and looks to Louis like he’ll have an answer for him, like he did when not knowing which salsa to try first. Louis can’t make this decision for him though, so he waits quietly, patiently, and watches as Harry mindlessly runs his nose over the frills of the blouse he hasn’t lowered yet, too lost in thought as he pinches the soft fabric delicately between two fingers. 

Finally Harry huffs. “I don’t want to choose, it feels limiting, like… like…” 

“Being put in a box.” The words come to Louis when the discomfort from the closet makes a reappearance. When he nods, his smile is a little weak but the gleam is back in his eyes.

With a shocking wave of pleasant pride, Louis gently takes the shirt from him and returns it to the rack, pointing to the ones next to it. 

“Means you’ll have to size up, look for an extra large.” 

Harry’s smile grows into something blinding. 

The doll is everywhere.

No not Harry. Well, yes Harry, but also all the other… Harry’s.

What would a group of Harry’s be called?

A horde.

A horde of Harry’s.

They’re _everywhere_.

The doll is the most popular toy on the market, had come out in time for last Christmas and now six months later he’s still lining every shelf in the toy aisle, on posters in windows proudly displaying the latest _Harry Stylinson_ accessories. 

His Harry isn’t exactly inconspicuous either. Next to Louis—camouflaged in his snapback, hoodie, and trackies—Harry’s nearly blinding in his new lavender blouse with frills at the cuffs and collar and a pair of fitted khaki trousers.

Harry is also staring far too intently at the stuffed animals on the circular stand near the register that snagged his attention on the way out. Still too close to the horde of Harry’s for comfort, Louis’ too antsy for patience. He’s beginning to wonder whether Harry’s actually looking to get something for Dorris or if he’s just got a thing for stuffed animals. 

“C’mon, why don’t we—”

“Louis? Is that you?” 

Louis turns at the voice and the older woman’s face lights up in delight. She steps closer, keeping her voice quiet and Louis can’t be grateful enough for her discretion.

“Hi, Ms. Wright.” He smiles at Oli’s mum and hopes it looks genuine. It is genuine, he’s known her since childhood like a second mum. But right now he’s stood too close to the toy aisle with an army of identical dolls boring holes in his back.

And a personal life-sized version right next to him, too. 

“Has tour ended already?” She eyes him up and down, kind gaze—

Harry picks out a stuffed bear from the rear of the stand and turns at the same time in surprise. He knocks over a number of stuffed toys in his haste, a swarm of sparkly rainbow animals tumbling from their shelves and Harry fumbles to catch them all, catching exactly zero and managing only to smack his arm against the whole stand, sending several more animals flying as Louis lurches to grab the precariously-tipping stand before it can fall completely over. Louis catches Harry’s arm and tugs him sideways against his chest to keep him from moving. 

They freeze, surrounded by a mess of rainbow animals that look like they’ve been vomited by a prancing leprechaun unicorn. 

At this rate Louis wouldn’t be surprised if a vomiting unicorn showed up at his front door. 

Harry leans into him, a single rainbow-furred teddy bear, the only one he’d been able to catch near the end, clutched to his chest. 

Mrs. Wright stares on in surprise. Harry glances at the solitary saved teddy before he shoots his free hand out to her.

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am. M’names Harry. Harry Stylin—”

“Styles.”

Harry’s brow crinkles and Louis can feel his curious gaze on the side of his face. 

Louis clears his throat, puts a respectable distance between him and Harry, and flashes Mrs. Wright another grin, anything to keep her eyes on the two of them and not on the massive sign over their shoulders to the left with _Harry Stylinson! His favourite colour is blue! He’s real, just like you!_ pasted all over the ad.

Harry openly studies him even as he’s still slowly shaking the woman’s hand. Finally he looks away, but he does take a step closer to Louis. It’s subtle, yet enough for their biceps to brush.

His words cover the perfectly-even breath Louis releases.

“Harry Styles. Lovely to meet you, ma’am.”

Her face melts into a warm smile. “I’m Mrs. Wright. My son is friends with this talented young star here.”

Harry’s eyes sparkle as he perks up. He nods enthusiastically.

”He is talented, isn’t he? Most talented I’ve ever heard. Have you heard _Apples and Bananas_? Definitely my favourite. The song I mean. Apples aren’t my favourite but I love bana—” 

Bloody hell. 

Louis clears his throat again, lightly pinching Harry’s side and smiling innocently at Ollie’s mum when Harry jumps. “It’s Dorris’ favourite. He heard me singing it and hasn’t let me live it down since.”

Harry scrunches his nose up.

Mrs. Wright studies the two of them a moment, then glances past. Louis' heart stutters to a halt, but she only smiles when her gaze returns, gently patting Louis' arm. 

“We’ll find some time to get together later, alright? It’s been long enough since I’ve spent time with your mum and I’d love to know how the tour went.”

They make idle chit-chat for another three minutes, which is two minutes and fifty-nine seconds longer than Louis' frayed nerves can handle when he’s stood in the middle of a horde of Harrys surrounding him with large green eyes, like a colony of migrating tree frogs that woke up when he accidentally bumbled into a darkened clearing.

The moment she’s out of sight, Louis whirls to Harry.

“Put these on.” He plucks his aviators from the pocket of his trackies and pushes them onto Harry’s face, regrettably covering half his gorgeous features. 

“Love when you sing that song, wasn’t taking the piss, you know. You’ve a brilliant voice, Lou.” The deep voice is too quiet and genuine for the cool-cat image now looking at Louis. 

Harry tilts his head to the side so his curls tip over the corner of the glasses and bloody hell this is not going to—

Wait. ‘Lou’?

Louis pushes out another breath. Maybe if his lungs deflate his heart will stop painfully swelling at the plaintive honesty in the nickname spilling from Harry’s lips. The nickname is nothing new, but hearing it from Harry unexpectedly shifts Louis’ insides. 

He looks up to meet Harry’s eyes.

His own dazed reflection is staring back at him in the black lenses.

Louis quickly tugs his cap down further, pushing his fringe out of his eyes before reaching up to flick Harry’s curls about. He attempts to artfully muss them so Harry looks less like the horde of plastic Harry’s and more like a… well.

Harry’s watching him, but Louis can’t read his expression because he can’t see Harry’s eyes. With fumbling fingers he opens the top two buttons on Harry’s blouse, popping the collar as best he can. 

He steps back to take in his handiwork. 

Lavender shirt half open, messy curls falling haphazardly around his face, dark aviators reflecting back at him, and one sleeve rolled up to show off a tattooed arm. Plush lips too soft to have ever been plastic are pulled into a frown bordering on a pout. 

Surrounded by a gaggle of rainbow-sparkle stuffed toys. 

There is only one possible way Louis can describe the image. 

Harry looks like a fucking Gucci ad. Louis is walking around Doncaster with a bloody model.

Well. At least now he looks too sexy to be a child’s toy. 

Pick your battles, Louis. 

Sighing, Louis pulls his snapback off, scratches his forehead, screws up his face, flicks his fringe aside, puts his cap back on, and takes the bait. 

“ _Apples and Bananas_? Really? That’s not taking the piss?” 

Pouty McPoutface glances at his bare arm, picking at the rolled cuff before smoothing a finger over the rose tattooed there. 

“Can’t be taking the piss if it’s the truth.”

Louis gapes. “You mean it don’t you? It’s your fucking favourite.”

Harry looks up, but whatever look he’s trying to give Louis is lost behind the aviators. 

“Why wouldn’t I mean it when I said it?”

“Because you’re—” a doll. 

And dolls don’t have brains. 

Louis bites his tongue before that can come out, but the motion of his hand towards Harry gives him away. He doesn’t need to see Harry’s eyes now to know they’ve clouded over. 

Louis hates the way he’s dampened things. He doesn’t stop to uncover why, but all he wants to do is outshine the shadows. It’s hard to predict what the right thing to say or do is when Louis’ better trained in making his six little sisters smile and not six foot men. He’s willing to give it his best shot, though. 

“How is that your favourite?” he asks carefully, honestly. 

Harry shakes his head, looking away again, this time to the rainbow teddy bear in his hands. He fiddles with it, frown still permanent, but then he turns to scan the floor and plucks up a second rainbow bear. He holds both toys out to Louis. 

“For Dorris?” Louis asks, arching an eyebrow. “She needs two?”

The smile finally starts to come back. Louis tries to ignore the rush of relief welling up like butterflies in his stomach, even if the smile is due to the mention of his baby sister’s name. 

“They’re a pair, can’t you tell?”

Louis really can’t, but he supposes two has always been better than one. He takes the bears, watching as Harry bends and meticulously places all the rest of the stuffed toys back on the spinning stand.

When they leave the shop, a slow grin finds its way onto Louis’ face. 

“Think I know the perfect place to go next.”

There’s definitely one place in town he’s certain isn’t haunted by a horde of Harry’s. Right now a single Harry is overwhelming enough. 

His plan was solid, almost waterproof. Except not.

Of course there’s no horde of Harrys in his favourite pub. Because like every child carrying the doll around, Harry doesn’t have an ID. 

Wistfully, he stands on the pavement in front of _The Rose and Dagger_ , staring through the window and wishing for just one refreshing splash of ale to soothe nerves that are now fried after being on edge all day.

Strong arms loop around him from behind, just the way his mum or his sisters would do. They draw him back against a firm chest, squeezing so tightly the breath and disappointment whoosh right out of Louis’ lungs. 

Jerking in surprise, Louis chokes on the last drop of air caught in his throat, whirling as best he can. It leaves him with his chest pressed against Harry’s, their faces inches apart.

“What’re you doing?” he jolts again, quickly grasping Harry’s biceps to angle as far back as he can in the tight hold, just enough to see Harry’s face. 

Above Louis’ sunglasses dark eyebrows furrow inward, matching the downward curve of Harry’s lips.

Harry lets go. “You looked sad, so I gave you a hug.”

Heart pounding, Louis quickly releases Harry’s arms and puts another step between them, shaking his head only to duck his chin and push his cap down, making sure no one can see his face. With luck anyone who noticed was too busy staring at the Gucci model in front of him anyway.

Crossing his arms over his chest does nothing to recreate the solid comfort of the hug though, and Louis struggles to find something to say.

“It’s not— I’m— no, that’s— I…”

Fucking Christ. He hasn’t been this tongue-tied since five minutes before his audition on X-Factor as a teen. Closing his eyes, he remembers his mum telling him to take a deep breath, her strong hands on his shoulders grounding him in place. Years later the memory remains vivid. 

He draws in a deep breath, holds it, and lets it out when his lungs start to ache from the stale air. He opens his eyes.

Harry’s still stood in front of him, one hand hovering near Louis’ elbow like he’d wanted to touch but stopped himself. Louis stares at his reflection in his own sunnies, then finally lets out a quiet chuckle.

“C’mon. Let’s get you a pair of your own, yea?”

He turns before Harry can answer, but when his movement brings him closer to Harry than expected, he doesn’t pull away from the warm brush of fingers on his arm. 

Why Louis ever thought ‘a pair’ would be enough for a doll-turned-model, he doesn’t have the mental energy to figure out. It’s not that Harry insists on more than one pair, but that every pair looks good on him. As if he doesn’t look bloody fit enough as it is.

“What about these?”

Louis flicks the indicator to turn right, glancing left at Harry who’s sat in the passenger seat on their way home. He’s wearing a bright pink pair of hearts doing nothing to actually hide his eyes.

He looks ridiculous, and maybe no more so than in the outrageous outfits he’s seen Dorris arrange for him, but in the flesh there’s an added charm to Harry choosing the flashiest sunnies of his own will. Or. Well, maybe he’s just remembering what Dorris used to dress him in, because dolls don’t really have a will of their own, do they? 

Louis tries to hold back a reaction to the flamboyant picture in the passenger seat, but a snort bursts out of him and he admits defeat with a wide grin. He does want his mental-record to know that he did try incredibly hard not to smile, though.

“Belong on a bloody beach with those.”

“Mm.” Harry tips his head to the side, studying Louis a moment too long, because the horn of the car behind blaring into Louis’ senses reminds him that he needs to take the roundabout now.

It was definitely the sudden honk that sent his heart racing, not Harry’s gaze peering straight through him like the barrier around his own bloody heart is as plastic, pink, and see through as the glasses.

The car dips right around the circle. He may as well be running in circles.

“Why just the beach?”

“Because you’ll stand out everywhere else.”

Harry blinks, nose scrunching up again in confusion. “S’at a bad thing?”

Huh.

Harry’s trying on the next pair before Louis can answer, so Louis focuses on getting them home as Harry cycles through white-rimmed circles a la the ‘70s, another pink pair, and his own aviators, each time turning to Louis with a wide grin. Louis isn’t a mind reader, that’s one of those perks being famous doesn’t come with, but it feels like Harry is waiting for his verdict like it’s all that matters. The thought warms his heart and loosens his shoulders so as he drives he lets Harry know where Louis thinks he belongs with each new pair, the first place that comes to mind.

“Barcelona. You’d love it there.” 

He’s already been through São Paolo, Milan, and Paris based on the looks. He hasn’t been home long, tour just ended, but his mind flips through the places he’s been on this last whirlwind tour: the sites, the sounds, the smells, that one bakery in Barcelona.

Harry’s smile is soft, no doubt matching the look in his eyes that Louis can’t see behind tinted glass.

“I can’t wait, Lou.”

He’ll be forever waiting. 

The thought is like a scratch over the vinyl of Louis’ memories. Harry will never get a chance to visit these places. Louis will never get to watch Harry walk along his favourite beaches with wide eyed wonderment, wearing his pink sunnies and tiny shorts, or get to learn what Harry would buy from the local markets, or see the faces he’d make at the views.

As Harry turns to pull out another pair from the bag, Louis pushes out a slow breath, twisting his grip on the wheel enough to feel the leather squeak beneath his suddenly sweaty palms. 

The front door swings open with a thud downstairs. 

“Louiiis!”

Pounding footsteps and the wild cry of his name proceed his baby sister all the way up the stairs. She doesn’t bother knocking, Louis knew she wouldn’t and had left the door to his bedroom cracked. He barely has a chance to set his guitar aside before Dorris is barrelling into his arms.

He also barely has a chance to actually squeeze the life out of her just as her tiny arms around his middle had squeezed out of him before she’s shoving back and squealing.

“Harry!”

Louis darts to close his door as Harry slides from his perch on the bed and drops to a crouch to catch Dorris, standing and twirling her around like a perfect boyfriend, eyes bright with a happiness to match Dorris’ and—

Boyfriend?

Shit.

Louis squeezes the door handle in an attempt to ignore the way he’s gone a bit unsteady on his feet. Twisting the doorknob in time with his heart, he softly reminds the two behind him to keep quite and prides himself on how steady he keeps his own voice. He quickly disappears from the room before watching his sister and her best friend chatting happily away about their days becomes too much.

He leans against the solid door, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath.

They spent all day out, getting home just in time to hide Harry away in Louis’ room before the girls got home, and the only thing Louis has to show for all those hours is a stress level higher than the night his first single dropped.

He’s no closer to figuring out how to turn Harry back into a doll. It was the _one thing_ he was supposed to be figuring out, and so naturally it was the one thing he didn’t even think about.

How is he supposed to figure it out anyway? Why is _he_ supposed to be the one to figure it out? Obviously you’ll only succeed if you have the experience and experience with dolls coming to bloody life is not something he has experience with.

Experience. 

A bitter wave of bile wells in his throat from a sour memory. He pushes it aside by shoving off his door, shoving his fringe out of his eyes, and heading downstairs.

“Hey, mum.” 

He smiles when she stops him in the kitchen doorway to kiss his forehead and fix his fringe, but only after messing it up again. Her presence does a lot to calm down his sense of helplessness. 

“So you found him then?”

His mouth goes dry. He tries to swallow over the lump of his tongue without looking like a migrating tree frog that’s been following him all day. 

Crossing his arms over his chest, he leans sideways against the doorframe in a way he prays is casual. “Who?”

Mum glances up from the snack tray she’s prepping, offering him a small smile. “Harry.” 

Louis blinks. 

She adds, “Dorris said she wanted to leave Harry with you today, thought you needed him more than she did, but you were still asleep by the time we left this morning, Boo.”

It’s a strange mixture of love and molasses that cascades over his heart at his mum’s words, so he feels both warm and heavy.

Mum picks up two carrots, tosses one at him, and takes a bite of hers as he fumbles to catch it, her smile gentle and knowing. Lottie’s mastered this smile best of all of them, and Louis refuses to admit he’s been the one on the receiving end of it from both of them too often considering he’s the oldest.

Nose wrinkling, he breaks the carrot in half just because he can. The snap is satisfying but hollow. 

“She’s missed you, you know,” mum adds in the silence. “Don’t think she’ll ever choose to go to camp with Ernie for the rest of her life if it means you’ll come home.” 

This time it’s a pure warmth that floods through Louis. As he stares at the carrot bits in his hand he replays the moment Dorris got home in his head, the way she dove for him first. Her best friend is a doll come to life, and she still came to him first. 

“If you keep smiling at that carrot I’m going to start thinking you like them,” mum warns, her smile far too knowing now. 

Rolling his eyes, Louis steps into the kitchen and tosses the broken pieces back in the pile. He wraps his arms around his mum from behind in their classic Tomlinson hug and watches her work.

“Think you know me well enough by now,” he teases, tucking his chin over her shoulder and tightening his hold as the memory of Harry’s arms around him springs unbidden to his mind. 

“Known you longer than anyone in your life, Boo,” mum agrees, pausing long enough to kiss his temple before motioning to the basket of fruit on the worktop. “Was there for your first big hit too.”

“Really mum?” he whines, sighing and dropping his forehead onto her shoulder now. “Got three albums o’chart toppers and all you lot want is produce.”

Not that he should be surprised. He can sing his heart out about love and falling in love and being in love, but everyone will keep saying it’s all hollow because he’s never been in love. May as well go back to singing about fruit. 

“Of course I do. You never sing it for me anymore,” mum points out, tapping a piece of celery to his cheek before tossing it on the pile of veggies. “It’s not just your song, Boo. The world doesn’t get you like that., your fans and the radio and the charts don’t get it. It’s special. I’ve never heard you happier singing than when you’re singing with Dorris, and I never see her happier than when you sing for her. That’s all the music a mother’s heart needs.”

Frowning, Louis lets his brows draw together even though it feels weird against his mum’s shoulder. The strange feeling is back in his chest, a tightness holding onto his mum can’t alleviate when all he can hear is the honesty in Harry’s voice when he so seriously said _Apples and Bananas_ was his favourite. It’s a mystery to Louis why, which is probably the reason even Harry couldn’t explain his odd choice. 

“Thanks, mum,” he mumbles before the silence stretches too long.

His heart is still out on jury duty fighting over the final verdict of his emotions, but he means it all the same. 

How could a magical doll possibly put into words what his mum had just said? With what critics are saying, Louis may as well let Harry write the lyrics for his next for all the difference it’ll make to them about the legitimacy of his love songs. 

Maybe they were right: he really doesn’t have any idea what love is. The odd mess clashing around his chest at the memory of sadness in Harry’s eyes and Louis’ need to take it away, something he’d only ever felt so strongly with his family, definitely hadn’t been love. 

Harry’s a doll, for fuck’s sake. 

Dorris’ high squeal of laughter echoes through the house and the battle in his chest dissipates as his heart settles. A smile comes over his face and stays long after mum shoos him upstairs to go get Dorris for tea.

Harry is staring again. 

Louis is well aware that staring is nothing for a doll that has no eyelids, but he _knows_ Harry can blink because he’s seen him do it at least three times in the past twenty-four hours. 

Louis presses his palm flat to the strings of his guitar as Harry’s unwavering focus causes him to hit the F-chord wrong. Bar chords are annoying enough on their own without the help of unblinking green eyes and his own inability to find the right bloody chord for the chorus anyway. 

Harry frowns. Louis tells himself he’s not drowning. Instead he gives in to the lifevest of his own temptation.

“What?” he asks, turning his focus left to where Harry is sat on the end of his bed, the line of his shoulders oddly straight for the relaxed pose he’s got, long fingers idly intertwined between his knees. 

It’s only half seven, fading daylight peeking through his partially-open blinds bathing Harry in a strangely soothing glow. Dorris is with mum for her bedtime bath and Louis always uses this time to focus on his music, fancy-dolls-he-doesn’t-in-any-way-fancy come to life or not. 

Though it’s looking a lot like the ‘or not’ may win out this time. 

“Why do you keep stopping?” Harry motions to the guitar. “Like it’s wrong.”

“Because it _is_ wrong.”

“For what? You’re not playing the wrong chords.”

Louis snorts, rubbing at his forehead.

“Let me guess, Holiday Harry is for when you’re not ‘Musician Harry’.” He airquotes the second name with one hand. 

Harry’s face splits into a grin that outshines the sun streaming through the window and it’s only the absolute need Louis has to roll his eyes that keeps his heart from simply giving up and rolling over in his chest, deciding it’s easier to play dead like a damn opossum that got caught in blinding headlights. 

There’s a desk and chair tucked in the corner of his room, but Louis’ always preferred to rest on an old trunk handed down from his grandparents. It’s sat beneath the window not currently bathing Harry in an ungodly golden glow.

He strums a C-chord and motions to the open notebook with his phone open to a recording app placed atop it. 

“Progression is wrong because it doesn’t fit what I’m trying to say.”

“What’re you trying to say?”

Harry says it so easily, like the answer is so bloody simple, but if it were that simple Louis would have written the whole fucking song by now. If he had any clue what he wanted to say, there’d be a lot of things he’d have accomplished by now, one of them being able to give his littlest sister back her doll so she could stop feeling like her twenty-four year old brother needed him more and—

Louis groans, flicking over the strings without pressing the frets, on his way to scrubbing his face and fixing his snapback over poorly tamed hair that is as far from stage-ready as it can possibly be. The sound of it jams his senses, and if he’s quite honest, the jarring mess fits the warring between his head and heart right now. 

A solid heat envelops his right side and Louis jolts, but Harry seems to have anticipated it when he squeezed next to him on the bit of trunk available, because he’s got careful fingers wrapped around the headstock of Louis’ guitar to hold it in place. 

Harry’s arm is crossed behind Louis’ back to brace on the trunk as he leans into Louis to glance at the notebook. Louis reclaims his guitar while Harry’s distracted, squeezing the fretboard hard enough that all he gets is a muffled thump from the strings.

“It’s a love song. I’ve had the line since Barcelona.”

“Love song?” Harry’s eyes light up again. “Like _Apples and Bananas_?”

Louis snorts. The huff of air helps to ease his grip on the frets.

Harry waits.

Louis wrinkles his nose.

Harry tips his head to the side, still waiting.

“Jesus. You’re not taking the piss again?” Louis finally groans, bumping his head back against the window. Harry’s arm doesn’t move even as Louis leans his weight against it. “ _Apples and Bananas_ is not a love song.”

He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the confusion painting Harry’s cloudy features. Why he ever thought a doll would know anything about love—

“Reckon I don’t know what it is then,” Harry muses with a shrug that bumps his shoulder into Louis’ and feels a bit like a hug when his arm presses into Louis’ back. “Must be unimaginable.”

“Love? No.” Louis quickly shakes his head, a quick burning desire to make Harry sure understands tensing his joints as it surges through him. It’s unexplainable, but he just fucking does.

“That’s just it. It _is_ imaginable. How can you bloody know you’re in love if you don’t know what being in love feels like?” 

He knows the words come harsher than he means, but he can’t help it. All the frustration of putting it on paper and finding the right chords, the right melody, all the fucking work to try and describe it, only to have it be written off by critics simply because he’s never been in love.

“You’re not alone. Love is never being alone, Haz. Sure, you can be sat in front of the fucking telly, but you’re not alone. It’s unconditional.” Louis wrenches his snapback off and tosses it, shoving his fingers through his hair to get it out of his face before he starts again. “You can be an utter shit and it doesn’t matter because you know they’re gonna have your fucking back. You don’t need to change, but you know you can change, and you will change. Be a better person because of one smile or hug, one person. It’s little things and it’s grand fucking gestures, it’s the highest of fucking highs and the shit of bloody lowest shits and it’s all the same because you’re in it together.” 

Louis sighs after his outburst, realizing just how much hand waving he’s been doing when his words die off and they’re left dangling uselessly in midair. Harry hasn’t looked at his hands yet so Louis drops them back to his guitar, strumming a C-chord that matches the timbre of his exhale.

“Know what I mean?” Louis adds quietly, glancing to Harry.

Maybe he accidentally smacked Harry in the face while he was gesturing. Harry’s eyes are just as bright as before, but now it looks like something’s clicked. Louis’ heart swells with the possibility that perhaps he’s finally been able to help someone understand.

“I do.” 

Harry’s gaze doesn’t waver despite how close they are and Louis has trouble not looking away. An anxious part of him wants to break the moment and move past like it never happened, but he can’t. Harry’s just smiling, and it’s too much when Louis can feel him breathing and the look in his eyes is so captivating Louis just might be drowning.

Harry’s hand curls around Louis’ on the fingerboard and he nudges until together they’ve formed the G-chord variation barred over the third fret. It’s not one Louis uses often. Once in position, Harry pushes Louis’ fingers down. The pressure feels comforting yet exciting, like the moment in the wings before he steps on stage with the roar of his fans transforming pre-show jitters into an adrenaline rush.

Harry’s looking at him again as he says, “I feel that all the time.”

The quiet exuberance of his words strikes Louis in the stomach, twists in, and wrenches up between his ribs to pierce his lungs. 

But it’s just not possible. Or maybe it is. He was manufactured to be the perfect boyfriend after all, wasn’t he?

Louis shrugs off Harry’s fingers and rises to his feet, setting his guitar on the stand.

“Then you probably don’t get it,” he sighs over his shoulder as he makes his way to the door. “Come on, Dorris is waiting for her goodnight hugs.”

“Think you could sing something for us?” Harry pauses and Louis hears him rise to follow. “I never get to hear you anymore.”

Louis doesn’t answer. He opens the door once Harry’s heat presses against his shoulder. 

“Louiiis!” 

Dorris bounces in his arms and Louis tightens his hold on her, getting right in her face and rubbing their noses together as he mimics the way she’s drawn his name out.

“Dorriiis!” 

Dorris claps both her palms against his cheeks with a quiet smack, giggling like they’re getting away with stealing biscuits from the cupboard. 

Well. In a way, they are. If Harry is a biscuit. A very tasty biscuit. With lots of crea—

None of that now, Louis. 

“Will you take Harry to the pitch tomorrow?” she asks in a loud whisper. 

Thankfully mum is downstairs watching telly, so Dorris’ vocal control isn’t much of a concern.

“What?” Louis’ nose scrunches, the question half a laugh as he glances to Harry sat next to him on Dorris’ bed. 

Harry’s face is lit up but if Louis is honest, he’s not certain it ever stopped being so.

Dorris bops Louis’ nose to regain his attention, crossing her arms over her chest and pouting.

“To play footie! So he can see you be awesome! I’ve told him loads about last time when the popsicle man was there and I got a win—” 

“A goal,” Louis corrects automatically as she continues rambling over him. 

“—against you but he doesn’t believe me ‘cause you never play with me.” She ends with a whiney huff that makes Louis have to stifle a laugh. 

Apparently a full week of brother time still equals never playing with her, even though despite his years of being on tour or running around bloody promo circuits, he’s never so exhausted as after a full Dorris day. 

He raises his eyebrow to playfully match her attitude. “Well maybe Harry doesn’t want to sit and watch me have a kickabout.” 

“Oh I’ve got a good knowledge of the game,” Harry points out, straightening both his legs so they’re pointing too. He nudges at Louis’ shin with his toe. “Reckon I could give you a pointer or two.”

Dorris laughs while Louis gasps dramatically, but Dorris is clambering out of his arms and diving into Harry’s so Louis’ scandalized look is overtaken by a sweet five-year old well on her way to becoming a six-year-old devil.

“And you can tell me all about it!” She turns to face Louis, sitting prim and regal on Harry’s lap like it’s her throne. “Mummy got me his footie outfit for Christmas last year but it won’t fit now cause he’s a giant so he’ll need something to wear.”

Louis raises both hands, bowing to his baby sister. 

“Your wish is my command, love.” He leaps over and tickles her until she shrieks with a fit of giggles until mum calls up the stairs, reminding them it’s bedtime for Dorris. 

Dorris huffs, back to pouting as Harry shifts off the bed and Louis gets her tucked beneath her blankets. 

“Will you stay with me tonight?” she asked hopefully, holding her arms up for one more hug. 

“Not tonight, love. It’s a week night.” Which means mum will be in in the morning to wake Dorris. Louis leans down, kisses her forehead and gets that one last hug. He sits on the edge of the bed so Harry, kneeling, can give her one too. “Mum might see.” 

Louis rests his hand on Harry’s back as Dorris hugs him, her wide eyes peering up at him over Harry’s shoulder. “We don’t want her to know about Haz, love, remember? He’s our little secret.”

Dorris’ peers over Harry’s shoulder as they hug and Louis leans in to remind her, “We don’t want her to know about Haz, love, remember? He’s our little secret.”

The muscles in Harry’s back tense beneath his palm, which, how his hand ended up on Harry’s back he’s got no idea, but Dorris is blowing a raspberry at Louis which is more distracting.

“Dream about the horsies again tonight, ok?” Harry grins, pulling back and bopping her nose the same way Louis had earlier. “You love those.”

“That’s silly, I can’t choose dreams!” She whisper-yells like they’re having a private talk, so Louis hides his smile behind a hand and looks away to make her think he’s not listening in.

“Of course you can!” Harry whispers eagerly. “Think about them until you fall asleep. Those thoughts will turn into dreams, and once you dream it enough it’ll come true, remember?”

Louis blinks, taken aback. He listens to them whisper a little longer before his fingers curl into the back of Harry’s lavender blouse to get his attention. They’ll be here all night if devious Dorris has anything to do with it. 

He has trouble falling asleep that night. The disappointment on Harry’s face before stepping into the closet to his makeshift bed didn’t help. Louis restrains himself from getting up to pace, it would probably wake Harry. He can’t text Niall, because what would he say? 

_Sorry, Nialler, my sister’s doll came to life and he’s really fucking fit and I don’t know how to fix it._

Right. First class ticket to Bedlam with that. Louis isn’t sure if he’s more concerned Niall won’t believe him, or that the Irish wanker actually might. 

He can’t sit and attempt to write the childlike doodle of scratchy circles his thoughts feel like either. The frustration of attempting to put it all into lyrics for the past few days has made that quite clear. 

The blank white of his ceiling isn’t helping. It may as well be covered in unintelligible signs, swirls, and symbols for all the answers he finds there. 

Fucking hell.

He stops tapping his arm and rolls onto his side, facing towards the cracked-open closet door. He can’t see inside, but there’s no movement. Of course Harry is asleep. It’s a doll’s life for him after all, isn’t it.

Louis hates sleeping on his problems; much better for his sanity to figure shit out so he can sleep. He really fucking hopes all these thoughts don’t turn into dreams. 

But maybe he’ll be able to solve them if they do. 

Footie fixes everything. Now that his brain is completely twisted in knots, Louis’ certain the only way he’ll untangle everything is with a football between his feet.

Actually having a footie partner may or may not have him more excited than he’d let on last night. And that’s exactly why he’s peeking into the closet first thing, why a rush of relief sweeps through his chest at the sight of Harry’s sleeping form, lying on his stomach tangled in the mess of blankets. His heart skips a beat. 

“C’mon, mate.” He squats down and pats the lumps somewhere around Harry’s legs. “Up you get.”

Harry grunts, shifts, mumbles something into his pillow, and settles again. Louis rolls his eyes and finds a blanket-covered foot by feel alone. He gives it an experimental tickle. 

Harry jerks, turning his head on the pillow and Christ, Louis thought once you reached a certain age you weren’t able to pout like that anymore. Is this what Harry is always like in the mornings? Louis squashes the fluttering wings back behind his ribs and wiggles his eyebrows.

“Thought you had a thing or two to teach me about footie.”

Harry mumbles something into his pillow and turns away from Louis. Perhaps Harry didn’t get as much sleep as he’d thought last night. Rolling his eyes, Louis crawls around the mess of his own clothes, the mess of blankets, and the mess of limbs, as best he can to get right in Harry’s face to be annoying like his sisters used to when they dragged him out of bed.

“C’mon, Haz. Dorris wants you to see me moves, ‘member?”

Harry scrunches one eye open, face half-squished into the pillow. He doesn’t say anything, his bleary gaze taking Louis in. His eyes have little flecks of yellow in them and his eyelashes are really long actually but a small part of Louis is certain he’s still got better lashes cause all his sisters used to complain about tha— oh. They’re really close. Maybe too close, considering how very little Harry understands proper propriety. Louis clears his throat and sits up, crawling out of the closet with a silent prayer for Harry to follow. 

He does. Thank fuck for small miracles. 

Not that _small_ and _Harry_ really go in the same sentence. 

So more like thank fuck for big miracles. 

They’d picked up trainers yesterday for Harry, but he had to cobble together a shirt from Louis paired with his new bright yellow shorts, his hair tucked back with a headband and yet somehow—

Harry still looks like a Gucci model.

“What?”

Sighing, Louis waves his hand aimlessly in front of him. Hopefully in some language the gesture makes sense as an answer.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know Gucci.”

Harry’s curls don’t fall into his eyes when peers at Louis, and compared to everything else he’s had to deal with these past few days, Louis is going to consider that a small miracle.

“We’re off for a kickabout and you’re talking about fashion.” Harry doesn’t say it like a question, but there’s faint amusement colouring his words and bloody fucking hell how did this get turned round on Louis?

“Only you could pull off your clothes fitting like that.” Louis is proud of himself for keeping the grumble out of his voice. 

He’s not jealous, no. But Harry’s shorts and shirt are leaving little to the imagination in terms of muscles and tattoos, and remembering those tattoos are all his art and it’s his shirt, has got Louis a mite off-kilter. Well, off enough to spout shit aloud and he hasn’t done that in a while. PR and Niall both fight over who gets to rag him off over cock-ups like that and well… he’s learned. Mostly.

“Going off about my clothes not fitting, but look at yours. Those are way too big.” Harry gestures at the hooded jumpers hung on the backside of Louis’ door. 

“S’how I like it,” Louis grumbles as he yanks one down. 

“Why do you do that?”

Pausing in the middle of pulling his hands through the sleeves of the oversized jumper, Louis squints in confusion. “Do what?” 

Harry steps closer, close enough for Louis’ lungs to shutter with the fear his breath will pour directly into Harry with the next inhale the boy takes. Then again, what’s personal space to a doll used to being held? 

Louis’ eyes close in resignation. He forces his lungs to unlock and expand.

Harry’s been Dorris’ favorite doll for months, but now instead of plastic he smells like home, like the scones mum makes on Sunday and the rose-scented soap in the shower. 

He smells like family.

With a perfectly polished finger, Harry thumbs the cuff curled around Louis’ wrist curiously. 

“Make yourself small.”

Louis’ fingers clench in time with the twist of his heart. 

He snorts, but it’s too weak for his liking. “I’m not small.”

“I know.” 

Perceptive eyes meet Louis from behind wild brown curls. Louis’ used to the unrelenting gawking of his fans, but he’s never felt quite so… seen. His poor attempt to untwist his heart fails as Harry continues. 

“You’ve never been seven inches tall. You’re larger than life,” Harry tugs curiously on Louis’ sleeve again. “So why do you do it?” 

Louis doesn’t know where to look. His gaze falls to their hands, to Harry’s still so carefully clasping his cuff between two fingers, nearly brushing against Louis’.

“Can’t always be larger than life, I reckon,” Louis finally answers, voice lowered with trepidation for the truth it holds. 

When Harry lets go of his sleeve Louis tucks the cuffs a little further over his hands, appreciating the cushion of fabric between them when he rubs his palms together. They’re standing so close he brushes against Harry’s chest as he does so.

Harry raises his own hands faced up. His fingers are a little longer than Louis’ now, but Louis can still remember the time Harry fit in a single palm. Harry’s face is thoughtful as he looks down, and when he meets Louis’ questioning gaze his soft smile doesn’t falter.

“Can’t always be seven inches tall either.”

Louis swallows and lowers his hands. Harry’s features flicker, but Louis’ too busy trying to decipher the tone underneath Harry’s words to catch what it was. Mentally shaking out thoughts too complex for the early hour, he turns and snags another hoodie off the back of his door to pass off to Harry.

He really needs to just play footie.

Harry wasn’t wrong. He knows all the rules of the game. Finally having a chance to practice, when for most of his life he didn’t even have bendable knees, definitely makes for one of the most brilliant kickabouts Louis has had the pleasure of playing in a long fucking time. 

It’s exhilarating, popping down to one of the local neighborhood pitches. The ground is damp from the rain they had overnight, and the temp is cool this early in the morning. It doesn’t take long for them to discard the hoodies. Louis’ shiver from the kiss of air against his skin as he tosses his jumper to the sideline mimics the shivers of anticipation as he manages three goals in quick succession to Harry’s one. 

He hasn’t felt this much joy since being on stage. All the kinks and stress in his muscles loosen and fall away as he bounds after Harry, both of them fighting for the ball, shouting insults that are far more profane from him and far more polite from Harry.

Louis’ decent enough to have a good time, sure, but watching a doll playing a game that, in theory he knows, but in practice hasn’t had… well, practice, is nothing short of fucking brilliant. The wet grass isn’t helping either of them keep their feet and by the fourth time they collide and fall in a heap of arms and legs, he’s breathless more from laughter than from actual play.

And possibly because this time Harry’s the one whose feet slid, and in his fall backwards his ankles had tangled in Louis’, which sent him careening forward so he lands atop Harry. The breath driven from Harry’s lungs blows across the sweaty strands of hair sticking to Louis’ forehead.

That soft rush of air slams into Louis’ senses like a windstorm. On the ground Louis’ limbs are shaking, his exertion becoming known but an inconsequential fact when all he can feel against him is hot muscle. Harry’s panting with him, heaving chest pushing into Louis’, and they’ve nearly broken noses with how close their faces are.

Louis’ gaze falls to Harry’s lips, parted to catch his breath, every exhale the same as the rush of air Louis first felt, except now he can feel it on his lips. For all the sweat coating his body, his mouth has gone dry.

Harry’s staring up at him, the shine on his skin from the dewey sweat and wet grass matching the shine in his eyes from the exhilarating game. Louis’ fists clench the grass on either side of Harry’s head. 

Harry’s gaze falls to his lips. 

“S’like you don’t know how to walk at all,” Louis manages, licking his own. 

He can chalk up his breathlessness of his half-formed amusement to play, but the words still come out strained to his own ears. 

It’s enough though. The words draw Harry’s eyes back to his own. His lips are still parted even as he mirrors Louis and licks them, before they spread into an unaffected grin that’s too cheeky for Louis’ stuttering heartbeat to handle right now.

“And I still matched you.” 

Louis has to believe the throaty whisper in the already deep voice, vibrating in a steady thrum against his chest, is because Harry is breathless from play too.

Louis flicks his head, to clear it, to get the sweaty strand stuck to his forehead out of his eye, to do something.

Harry brushes the stubborn strand aside with the back of one finger, the touch as tender as the hand Louis’ increasingly becoming aware of curved around his waist, like Harry’s content to stay right where he is for the rest of his life.

“Lou,” he murmurs, gaze flicking between Louis’ eyes and Louis doesn’t know what Harry’s hoping to find, but he can’t breathe as Harry starts to finish his thought, “I—”

“We should get back,” Louis cuts in, his hands clutching the lawn on either side of Harry so tightly that when he forces himself to his feet he’s got fistfuls of shredded grass because he couldn’t let go.

Jesus fucking _fuck._

He’s so fucked.

In a base way, Louis’ been able to recognize that Harry’s attractive this entire time. The issue now is he knows exactly how solid the subtle curves of muscle are when pressed tight against them, how they slide against his skin slick with sweat and heated with a rush of blood. 

They wrap things up quickly at the pitch. Louis can’t stop watching the way thin fabric clings to Harry’s sweaty body with every step the lad takes across the grass.

Now the white noise of the shower running upstairs is something he latches onto to carefully keep his mind blank and definitely, one hundred percent, not think about a naked Harry. 

The sweat on his skin is starting to itch and he rubs a hand through his mess of a fringe, closing his eyes for a moment as he sinks against the kitchen worktop. The endorphins are wearing off and leaving him close to needing a kip. 

The kettle whistles. Louis opens his eyes with a jump.

His hands work on autopilot to gather a couple cuppas. He swirls the bags once and raises one mug to his lips when movement in his peripheral causes him to glance sideways to find Harry in the doorway just as the water meets his mouth. 

“Hot!” Louis yelps as boiling water scorches his tongue and spills down his front before he can yank the cup away fast enough. Fingers come to press against his burnt lip like an afterthought. 

It’s too late.

“Holy fuck, so hot.” The mug unceremoniously set down, both heels of Louis’ palms press over his eyes as he mutters to himself, adamantly keeping his back to the lad in the doorway.

Every second of effort he put into ignoring certain thoughts has been in vain. A vivid afterimage of Harry, wet and naked, is imprinted on the back of his eyelids like the sun seared it there permanently. 

“I know you have clothes because I lugged them around all day yesterday.” He tries to sound stern even as his voice threatens to warble. Why the fuck does he pay for a vocal coach if he can’t bloody control his pitch when he needs to. 

“Yeah,” Harry agrees calmly from behind, unbothered.

Louis raises a hand in exclamation, vaguely waving it behind him. “So where the fuck are they?” 

“I’m all wet, Dorris usually helps dry me off.” 

Louis squeezes his eyes shut until stars burst behind them, battling thoughts of caressing every bit of Harry’s velvety skin with a plush towel to dry him off. He bites the burn on his lip until the pain pulls him from the fantasy. 

“The towels on the rack, I’ll leave one out for you. I’m sure you can figure it out from there.” 

Louis makes it his mission to escape upstairs without another glimpse at the naked man. He plops a folded towel outside the door and cranks the shower temperature to cold, hoping it’ll soothe the flush taking over his body. 

Louis’ tugging on a shirt after his quick and freezing rinse when his phone lights up. Not many people have the number to this mobile, the one for family and close friends, which, yeah. Mainly it’s family. At this point Niall’s ingrained himself as an honorary Tomlinson, but his message has little to do with familiarities. 

It’s a link. 

At first Louis’ confused why Niall would send him something from a rag-mag, that sort of thing definitely unworthy of any attention. Then he sees the magazine banner when it loads and his throat cinches. It’s not some poparazzi dish, it’s one of what Niall dubs ‘The Big Three’ critical news outlets, at least where the music industry is concerned. Or really just the ones holding serious sway over the masses. It’s not front page, but on a blog it hardly matters when Louis’ name is splashed at the top of the article. 

_Tommo Dressing Up with Mr. Boy Toy? ___

____

__

He struggles to swallow before he even sees what comes next. High resolution photographs of him completely oblivious to the lens, and it’s so obnoxiously obvious why he attracted attention when he’s making moon eyes at Harry. The glasses he shoved onto Harry’s face did their job, the shirt and tousled hair adding to the ‘freshly fucked’ glow the magazine comments on, even though Louis can remember this particular smile had more to do with teasing Louis over his hate for cucumbers than anything the article probably insinuates.

It’s at one of the million stores they traveled through for Harry to pick out whatever he deemed necessary for human life. He’s got a pink shirt with white polka dots the size of dinner plates in his hands, paying it no attention as he prods Louis in the side. The quirk of his lips tells of his fond amusement for the easy banter between them. The rest of the shots are similar, snaps detailing the moment until they moved on to the next outrageous shop with matching smiles. 

Louis scowls at the perverse infringement of privacy on his phone and swipes away. His screen returns to Niall’s full message below the link. 

Nialler:  
_Does he need an NDA?_

Louis’ gut twists with a greasy coat of oil. The question is predictable, should have been expected really, but it still hurts. Louis’ refused to get familiar with all the logistical intricacies of fame, although he’s aware Niall quietly moves behind his back to keep any potential messes at bay. They don’t usually talk about it so blatantly like this, but with Niall for once not stitched to his side, Louis’ forced to face the reality of his situation. 

A dark laugh escapes him, the answer hitting him in the face before he can even debate the question seriously. Harry couldn’t sign anything if he needed to. He’s not a real fucking person. 

“You have more tattoos!”

Louis fumbles his phone as he’s caught off guard by the exclamation. Harry’s in the doorway, their situations flipped from the kitchen. Harry’s finally found an outfit and Louis remains in nothing but his towel. Louis’ hand subconsciously flattens against his collar where the words are written on his skin like he’s got some sort of modesty to hide. 

With a short huff of confirmation Louis drops his mobile with a hum to brush off Harry’s enthusiasm. He’s quick to pull on the shirt limp on the bed in front of him before he takes the thickest, baggiest jumper he has from his closet and tosses it on, winding the extra fabric in his palms. 

“Lou?” Over his shoulder Harry’s trying to smile, but it falters under the blank look Louis can feel slowly cementing his features. “Do you like my outfit?” 

A crack opens in Louis’ heart at the genuine uncertainty radiating from Harry. He’s gorgeous, of course he is. The flowy collar and ruffled sleeves of his blouse are dainty, the strong shoulders and straight waist cut of his pants highly masculine. It’s a lovely combination and Louis is in absolutely no mood to appreciate it. 

“Ya,” he mumbles in reply and turns his back to locate his guitar. 

The crack in his heart digs a bit deeper with the weight of Harry’s pout on his shoulders. Louis throws himself moodily on the bed, guitar in hand. 

“Are you okay?”

“Just…” Louis’ fingers stumble on their way through a chord warm up he’s done in his sleep for nearly a decade. He takes a deep breath. Tries again. “Got some work to do.” 

He keeps his gaze on the ceiling so he doesn’t have to see the hurt on Harry’s face. The answering silence still feels like an echoing absence in the fucking Grand Canyon of his chest. 

Approaching footsteps make him pause again. The top of Harry’s head bobs around the room in his peripheral and curiosity gets the better of Louis’ mopey mood. He cranes over the guitar on his stomach to see Harry sat plum on his backside in the centre of the room.

He’s brought colouring with him, probably scavenged from Dorris’ art drawer. A rainbow of pencils and scraps of paper that’s got him pinching together his brows in focus. A river of tenderness flows through the crack inside Louis like a dam broke loose. 

It’s a copy of what Dorris does when mum sits at the table to go through the mail or calculate the monthly bills. When she wants to be close but doesn’t want to bother, just enjoy the silent company. 

Alone, but not alone.

The small scratch of pen across paper fades into a comforting constant in Louis’ mind, washing over him in a slow wave of subtle support. He picks idly at his strings and enjoys a moment that feels frozen in time. 

“Shh,” Louis reminds the giggling Harry who covers his mouth in an attempt to stifle his laughter. 

“Oops.” 

“Watch it.” 

“M’sorry, I—”

“Ow!”

“Shh!” Harry tries to mimic Louis’ earlier warning, but his giggles ruin his efforts at sternness. 

They ease themselves out of Dorris’ single bed, somehow having managed to tangle their limbs together to fit the three of them on the thing at Dorris’ tearful post-nightmare insistence. It’s been slow maneuvering with the occasional awkward elbow to the rib as they sort themselves from the petite mattress. 

Their shared good mood lasts until they reach Louis’ room. Just the sight of the dark, cold closet on the far side has Louis’ throat tightening with the first step he takes through the door. 

His hand reaches out before Harry can move past him, fingers looping around Harry’s wrist. 

“You can sleep with me.” 

Harry blinks, startled frozen. “I can sleep with you?” 

“You can sleep in the bed, with me,” Louis clarifies, if for nothing but his own sanity's sake. 

The hummingbird thrum of his heart eases with the way Harry morphs into pure delight. With a few more shuffles and a quick strip from his jeans and jumper, Louis slips onto his side only to see Harry still standing at the foot of the mattress, uncertainty creasing his pretty features. 

“Where do you want me?” 

Ignoring the crude response on the tip of his tongue, Louis reaches over to flip the other side of the blankets down in invitation. 

“Anywhere but that bloody closet.” 

Harry’s quick to clamber in after that, like perhaps he just wanted to hear it. He puts a full arms-length between him and the edge, leaving barely any space between them. Under the sheets Louis feels warmth radiating along his side with unignorable force, a constant reminder of the living being breathing gently into the pillow beside him. 

When everything settles Louis waits as long as is bearable before turning to look across to the other pillow. 

A wild mess of silky curls fan about the pillow. Harry’s gentle face has gone slack, plush parted lips and softly curved features pale in the dim light through the window. A small part of him thinks he should roll over and let it be, spend the next day seriously cracking down on discovering a way to get Harry back to his plastic paradise. But it’s not what he wants to do. If years of blindly following orders for record labels have taught him anything, it's to trust his gut. So despite the low rolling fear curdling his stomach, he stops thinking, shuts out every denial he’s been harbouring for just one night, and simply does what he wants. 

With a cold toe Louis pokes Harry in the shin under the covers.

Louis holds his breath, his body so still he can feel the earth rotate. His heart pounds. Nothing happens. 

He pokes again a little harder. 

Harry hums into the pillow and Louis’ mouth quirks with a bloom of affection for the sleepy lad blinking back to consciousness. 

“Hey Haz.” His words falter, Harry’s shining eyes so expectant they leave him wavering on the precipice. He licks his lips. “Do you still feel that feeling?” 

Harry’s eyes are clear now, his face attentive without the sleepiness it held seconds ago. His warm fingers find Louis’ by his pillow and slowly twine them together. He must be able to feel Louis’ pulse through them with the way his heart is working overtime like a steam engine barreling ahead with broken breaks. 

“With you? Always.” 

Everything derails with that one little word. 

Louis’ body works faster than his mind. He’s crowded close to Harry, so close he can smell the hint of toothpaste still on Harry’s tongue. Harry shifts towards him, leaning in where Louis’ stopped. Their foreheads meet. 

“Can I… “ Louis can’t get the words out. Doesn’t think he has to with the way Harry’s eyes are watching his lips move. 

“Ya,” Harry breathes, small and impatient. 

It’s Harry who angles forward to connect them in a kiss that feels like coming home. It’s been a build up of days spent denying the affection that’s grown every moment spent with the enigma that is Harry. A relief to finally give in, to show his gratitude for the miracle that is Harry in the best language there is. 

It’s Louis who shifts to prop up on his elbow and align their bodies like puzzle pieces slotting together. Harry’s responsive beneath him, moving in time to every breath, every gentle hold, every stroke over his cheek and neck and chest as their lips get familiar with the startling new sensation of each other. 

Louis can’t stop his huff of laughter when Harry nips his bottom lip. 

Pure rocket fuel runs through Louis’ veins when they part, his heart strong enough to power the sun just from the sight of the smile left on Harry’s flushed cheeks. Harry’s hands have found their way to the small of Louis’ back, soothing fingers hitched under his shirt to hold him.

“Did I do it wrong?” Harry asks, half-guilty smile adorning his face. 

“No, no I just,” Louis licks over the spot Harry’s teeth found, fighting back another bout of the giggles, “I burnt my lip, can’t feel it.” 

“Oh,” Harry breathes, his body untensing against Louis’ as his eyes dance between meeting Louis’ admiring gaze. It falls to Louis’ lips. “Can we do it again? Maybe I can kiss it better.”

This time the laughter bubbles out of Louis unrestrained as he moves forward to meet the cheeky bugger. This time they don’t part until sleep draws Louis away from Harry’s lips. 

Louis’ in one of those Disney films Dorris loves to watch on Saturday mornings.

There’s sunlight, for one, brightening the back of his eyelids into a golden red. There’s birds chirping in the back garden and his entire body is humming in tune with them like he was singing in his sleep, woke up, and just kept singing.

Not far off really. Mum jokes he could sing before he could talk, and look where he is now.

He’s never woken up feeling this light, as though the sunshine glowing his eyelids is glowing his heart too, and now it’s thrumming in his chest, swelled enough that he actually notices it.

He doesn’t want to move. So he breathes in, slow and deep, while his back presses into the warmth of his sheets as his bare stomach pushes into a comforting weight wrapped around him.

His hand falls to the weight, fingers dancing lightly over the soft hairs dotting a warm arm. Muscles shift beneath his touch as the hold tightens around his middle. Warmth bubbles up in his chest and pops a smile onto his face that he doesn’t care to hold back. Curving his palm over the top of Harry’s hand, Louis turns his head on his pillow and finally, carefully, peeks his eyes open. 

Still-silky curls are far more mussed now, smooshed into the pillow and covering half of Harry’s face still relaxed in sleep. He’s so close on the pillow that Louis has to squint, almost getting one of Harry’s locks that Louis definitely mucked up with his fingers last night caught on his eyeball. 

Louis wiggles his shoulders deeper into the mattress, enjoying the comfort of being sprawled on his back while Harry lays beside him on his stomach, an arm wrapped possessively around Louis’ waist with his side pressing into Louis’ hip, right leg tangled in Louis’ left. Close enough that Louis can feel the soft brush of air as Harry exhales against his lips.

His lips are still tingling from the first kiss, that turned into two, that turned into too-many-to-count-what-happened-to-his-shirt? last night. His gaze slips to Harry’s lips, half-hidden by the pillow but red and plush enough to make Louis eager to kiss them again. He thumbs over his own bottom lip instead to soothe the desire. There’s a smile permanently glued on his face and the slight chap to his lips only makes that smile wider.

He lets his gaze skate over the expanse of bare skin he can see, lingering on Harry’s tattoos curving and dipping seamlessly across his lithe frame, tattoos that Louis had always intended to match his own but never quite this way. He’d never imagined that what had looked like child’s art when he’d so painstakingly drawn them on the doll could turn out to be so beautiful. 

He doesn’t want to move. 

The restless energy, an itch beneath the skin he hasn’t been able to scratch in days, is gone right now and he’s finding it hard to compare this contentment to anything else. In a way it reminds him of being on tour, the sizzling energy of thousands of people there to see him, to share with him, but it’s that perfect moment where the opening chords start and the crowd goes wild and before he can open his mouth to sing, they’re singing. They sing his words back to him, wild and passionate and imperfect voices alone, but so bloody perfect together that all he can do is tip his head back and bask in it, hold his mic out to his fans because he doesn’t know how else to thank them. It’s the only time he really feels like he’s made it, and he doesn’t want to move.

He doesn’t want to move now either.

The house is quiet. It’s Friday, so mum and Dorris have already left. It’ll be a few hours before they come home so he closes his eyes again, lifts enough to press a kiss to one tattooed shoulder and drifts, cataloguing every single feeling: the warmth, the security, the excitement, the hope, the love, the relief. 

He cements it all into his memory so when his heart twists at the reminder that this won’t last and he has to figure out how to turn Harry back into a doll soon, he’s able to untwist the pain a fraction by tangling his fingers into Harry’s and pressing their joined hands against his skin.

Louis doesn’t have the heart to wake Harry when his stomach and bladder finally get the better of him. 

Not bothering to put on a shirt, Louis pads bare-foot downstairs in the joggers he wore to bed last night, filling up and flicking on the kettle before he even thinks about doing anything else.

Not that he had to actually think about making a couple cuppas either, mind you. Mum taught him proper manners and always having a tea close at hand is one of them. 

He flicks the telly on for some noise with about as much thought as flicking on the kettle. His mum must’ve had the news running, but he knows better than to leave it on the midday show so he changes it to 4Music just to have some noise in the background. He’s got a bowl half-filled with Coco Pops when his mind actually clues in to what he’s hearing.

Or rather, he clues in because he wasn’t expecting to hear his name from the hosts’ mouths. He’s not on tour and he’s between singles, so the only thing newsworthy enough for his name to come up must have nothing to do with his music. His heart twists again, and this time he can’t pry open the knot, cereal box hovering as he listens to what they’re saying.

_“Didn’t waste much time did he? Been off tour for a fortnight now and he’s clearly having a break from music to enjoy the finer parts of stardom.”_

_“Well whoever that man is he’s snagged, give me a piece! He’s done well for himself, he’s got the talent, the drive, and the numbers, I’d say Louis deserves it. About time he’s found someone.”_

_“Not the type to settle down though, is he? Off he goes with the first fit bloke that catches his eye? Puts some clarity on his music, I’d say.”_

_“Can’t wait to hear his next album if he’s got himself a real relationship now! Enough with the basic brit-pop-boy songs, let’s see if being in love will bring us some lyrics a bit deeper than comparing his bed-mate to sweet and sour pork.’”_

Coco Pops spill all over the worktop when Louis drops the box and careens through the kitchen doorway to click off the telly. He can’t cut the grating laughter off fast enough.

_“Well if anyone out there knows the lucky lad that snagged himself Doncaster’s very own Louis Tomlinson, let us know! I’m sure there’s lots of broken hearts o—”_

He throws the remote onto the sofa.

He knows better than to listen to idle gossip from anyone with no right to fucking judge, but it doesn’t stop his hands from clenching as tightly as his jaw, teeth grinding and nails digging into his palms.

He’s bloody sick of this fucking notion that he doesn’t know what love feels like. He knows. How could he not? He doesn’t need to be fucking in love to know how it feels, so why can’t these arses get that? He doesn’t need a relationship to know it, to sing it. He doesn’t need a relationship and he doesn’t have to have one because he—

Doesn’t. He doesn’t have a relationship. 

His fingers spaz and unclench, his next breath too hard to take in.

He’s a doll. Harry isn’t even real. The only relationship that’s ever meant anything to Louis isn’t real. The bile in his throat is thick, clogging his insides. He grips onto the kitchen table for stability, to stop himself from lashing out and knocking something over just to feel like he’s got control over _anything_ in his life.

“Lou?”

It’s a single word, just one word, but it slams into Louis' gut with enough force to make his eyes burn. It’s deep, throaty with sleep, gentle but firm, worried but calm, stable like an anchor the waves of his bloody emotions keep bashing against and all it does is hurt. It _hurts._

“What is it, Harry.”

The struggle to keep his voice even means the words come out flat, toneless, as lifeless as his supposed songs that rely on catchy melodies to become earworms, apparently lacking any depth or dimension.

“S’wrong? You alright?”

A child could tell he’s not alright. Louis’ barely holding it together, and yet Harry’s asking him if he’s fucking alright like he doesn’t know?

Because he’s a doll. He’s a fucking doll, Louis. You fancy a fucking _doll_. No wonder the critics are so hung up on your hollow lyrics.

He glances up at movement in his peripheral. Unlike yesterday, Harry’s got trackies on, not dripping wet and starkers waiting for Louis to dry him off, but the concern is evident on his face and he’s shirtless still and Louis can’t handle seeing him right now.

Just like that Harry is behind him though, wrapping him in a hug that echoes with the urgency of someone who thinks a hug is going to solve everything.

“Lou—”

“Stop fucking saying that.” The words spit out before he can stop them, his body tensing as he jerks away from Harry’s embrace before he can sink into it. 

He’s sunk too far already, and he seeing the hurt confusion clouding Harry’s features has water closing further over his head until he’s drowning.

“Whatever’s happened, we can—”

“No. There’s no we anything, Harry.” The words bubble up like the last of his air escaping, desperately seeking life support from the surface far above. “We’ve known each other for what, a fucking week at best? This has gone on long enough.” 

Louis’ hands wave wildly, the air too light compared to the water enclosing his heart and lungs, forcing him to swim when he doesn’t know which way is up. He’s left to follow the wavering of his own words as he spits them at Harry, at himself.

“Dorris finishes daycare today, I go back to London on Monday. The holiday is fucking over. It’s over.” The words are quieter now, but no less venomous than a two-headed snake.

“Louis, I love—”

“You don’t fucking love me. You’re a doll, Harry. You’re ‘the perfect boyfriend’.” He quotes the words of every Harry Stylinson doll on every ad, the ones that have been beating endlessly against his skull since he started speaking. “You were programmed to feel the way you do and I fucking fell for it.”

He fucking fell for it. And now he’s fucking drowning.

“Just leave me the fuck alone. I can’t figure out how to change you back with you clinging to me all the time and clouding me mind.” 

The final air bubbles dissipate. They’re left in a deep ocean silence, roiling waves between them. Louis swaying with them, an unsteady sailor unable to find his footing. He has to clear his head and come up for air, and he can’t do that with Harry around. He can’t watch as Harry’s face falls and his hands drop to his sides.

“You can’t change me. You don’t get to decide.” The words wrap around Louis' ankles and drag him further under, but there’s no liferaft in Harry’s eyes anymore, no hand reaching out to him. Instead Harry retreats to the door, pausing a moment with heartbreak so palpable it has Louis' heart crumbling in his chest. “But if that’s what you want, then ok.”

Louis can’t move when the click of a door closing behind Harry reaches his ears. It’s the final weight dragging him to the bottom. 

It takes too long to notice. Or perhaps it’s that he notices and spends much too long adamantly ignoring it. Either way, Dorris is the one to make Louis really realize the truth. 

He’s sprawled on the sofa decidedly ignoring the vacant feeling in his chest. His mum and sibling arrive home in a clamour, the smallest feet in the family somehow the loudest as Dorris stomps up the stairs only to come thudding down them moments later. Louis clicks the volume up a few notches on the telly he’s not paid a single ounce of focus to. 

He lets out an oof as Dorris collides with him. She scrambles with bony knees and wayward elbows until she’s in his lap. 

“Where’s Harry?” she theatrically whispers. 

Louis would find it amusing if the name wasn’t like nails to his ear-canals. 

He shrugs under her weight with a moody sigh. “Dunno.” 

“He wasn’t in your room and he wasn’t in my room and he wasn’t in the potty and—” 

“Did you check under your bed, lovie?” mum calls from the kitchen. 

“Mummy that’s so silly,” Dorris giggles before Louis can give her a warning look. 

Louis’ limbs start to tense, but there’s a pretty simple explanation for all this. Harry couldn’t have not heard the two girls come home, what with Dorris’ elephant steps, so surely he’s just tucked himself away until the coast is clear for certain. Going to find him, especially if it means finding him in that Goddamn bloody closet, is on the very bottom of things Louis wants to do right now. Hell, maybe if they just leave Harry in the dark for a while he’ll turn back to plastic like he’s supposed to be. 

Even the thought of it twists Louis’ guts with the cruelty. He’s been a right arse, but to a person or a doll, he could never deliberately do something so vicious. 

“Sounds like a case for the mum. I bet you a pound you’ve left him in the bath again,” mum says to Dorris as she heads for the stairs.

That really gets Louis tensing. He stands so quickly he nearly drops Dorris from her perch, grabbing her just in time to get her little loud feet on the ground before he races after mum already halfway up the stairs. 

“Mum, uh, I can help her while you get supper, yeah?” 

“Oh no, you’ve lost him three times yourself this week I swear, Boo,” his mum’s voice trails from the second floor as Louis clambers up the stairs two at a time, heart rapid in his throat. “Honestly I didn’t think I’d have to worry about you stealing your sister’s dolls once the older twins were in school kits.” 

“Mum—” Louis barely calls out as he sees her turn into his room. Oh fuck fuck fuck, what the _fuck_ is he going to say about the six foot man hiding in his closet?

“Mum, I can explain!” he yells as he barrels out of breath into his room. 

His mother drops a few dirty pieces of laundry back on the floor where they came from and arches both eyebrows high. 

“Louis, I raised you. Your mess no longer scares me, though I do sometimes debate sending an apology to every maid left to deal with your aftermath across the globe.”

Louis barely registers the amusement in her tone as his eyes latch onto the closet. His closet. Standing wide open with no evidence of the nest it so recently held, only a neatly folded pile of clothes tucked into the corner. A pile containing more frills and lace than Louis’ underwear drawer (which isn’t a lot, but is still _some_ ) and Louis blinks hard just to make sure he’s seeing things right. His mother sighs and says something more before she leaves the room to continue the search. 

Louis can’t look away from the pile of clothes. 

Perched on top is the smaller stuffed rainbow-bear looking at Louis with glassy eyes and a stitched smile. 

It’s a blatant goodbye, tidy like it may as well be wrapped neatly with a bow. A staggering wave of nausea has Louis pressing a hand to his stomach. 

A tug on his other hand snaps him out of his tunnel vision. Dorris stands by his side. 

“Where is he?” she hisses, eyes round and as frightened as Louis feels inside. 

“He might be—” ah fucking Christ. Her lip is already wavering and Louis isn’t faring much better. He kneels down to meet her height. “He might be back where he belongs.” 

“He belongs with us!” She stomps her foot. 

You belong on the beach, echoes through Louis’ head. He blinks something out his eyes, wishing he had a pair of sunglasses to hide behind now.

“He was never real, Dor—” 

“He is real!” she screeches. “He likes apples cut in slices not quarters and he braids my hair better than you and he knows how far the moon is because we’re gonna go there one day, you and me and him because he’s your friend too!” 

“Harry’s not my friend.” He looks away as he says it, unable to take the full brunt of her devastated face.

“Don’t you like him?”

Rainbow fur catches his eye. 

He answers without thought. “Of course.” 

“Don’t you have fun with him?” 

Louis shrugs at the question. Because he does. Did. 

But he doesn’t want to think about the way this past week has been a highlight in a life already filled with extreme highs. Louis’ won an international competition, won awards in several countries for his musical efforts, performed in front of crowds he couldn’t see the edges of. Yet this week is something he holds closer than all of that. Something he’ll take with him for the rest of his life.

He doesn’t want to think about it, so he swallows it down and refuses to evaluate it. It’s over. Done with. 

Dorris jerks his hand when he doesn’t say anything, interrupting his ‘not thinking about it’ thoughts. “Don’t you know his favourite colour is blue?”

Lavender. The word sits like a poisoned seed on Louis’ tongue. It’s immediate, breaking through every wall Louis’ been trying to hide behind. He hangs his head as the tears spill too quickly to blink back. 

Every advert—on the telly, in the mall, on the box— they all say the doll’s favourite colour is blue, part of the stupid bloody slogan. But Louis knows from watching Harry cradle a delicate silk shirt in his arms, the way he never stopped stroking his new soft knit jumper, the polish he reached for first when Louis did his nails. Harry, his Harry, has a favourite colour, and it’s a soft pale lavender. 

“It’s not fair!” Dorris stomps with an almighty cry. “It was my wish that got him here. If you don’t want him, I want him back!”

Louis’ heart stutters. His lungs freeze. He stares dumbfounded at Dorris. 

“What do you mean?” he croaks as she wipes her chubby hands over her own wet cheeks. 

“I wished upon the star like you always said. I wished him to be your friend because you don’t have any, but that’s because you’re a meanie and I don’t want you to be my brother, I want Harry.” She shoves his shoulders with every ounce of rage her little body can hold before whirling out of the room. Louis lands plum on his arse, struck stupid with her words echoing in his head. 

She made a wish for him. He can remember the day in the car, the day before Harry appeared in the flesh. She’d wanted her big brother to have a friend.

Now she doesn’t even want a big brother. 

The sting of it cuts deep. Deeper still when he knows he deserves it. 

He lurches to his unsteady feet and nearly collides with the door frame in his haste to leave. He has to find Harry. 

“What the heck happened, Louis?” his mum leans out of the loo with a towel wrapped around her hair. “I leave for two seconds to take a quick rinse and she’s gone supersonic. You can’t think he’s really gone for good this time, we haven’t even checked the car.” 

“I dunno, I gotta... I’ll go check.” 

White noise creeps over his ears as he turns away, narrowed focus on his direct path as he smashes his feet into trainers and falls out the front door.

The crisp air of outside startles him a bit, brings a breeze of realisation that the world has continued to turn outside of his own major meltdowns the last few hours. A woman jogs by, a car stops to let someone cross, a man jabbers on his mobile as he waits for his dog to finish weeing on a post. Great, yeah, life and the world and all that’s wonderful. Louis could give less of a shit because none of these people have a freckle on the left side of their jaw and a heart on their sleeve. 

He keeps scanning the neighbourhood as far as he can see while walking down the garden path, but the truth of it is he’s got no fucking idea which way Harry’s gone. He eyes the car. 

Harry’s on foot, but he’s also had a major head start. With the last time Louis saw him being sometime this morning and with the sun low in the sky, he’s running short on time if he wants any chance of finding Harry before it gets dark. 

He wouldn’t— He couldn’t have just left. 

Right? 

Louis tries to talk some sense to himself. He can’t think about it as a real possibility if he wants to keep standing, because thoughts like that are going to knock him to the ground and he might actually never get up again. Niall would have a fucking hernia over the press that would get. 

Louis yanks open the driver side door and climbs in. Jams the key into the ignition. Grips the wheel tight. Breathes. 

Tries. He tries to breathe. 

When it fails he lets out a pitiful curse and releases the break. Better get fucking going then. 

An hour later Louis’ resting his head on the steering wheel. He’s parked on some random street in a neighbourhood vaguely resembling his own, but a little too far off from the familiarity of his childhood to recognize. This park isn’t the second, nor third closest to his house, so he’s never actually been here, but it looks exactly like all the others. Big field. Slides. Swi— 

Louis narrows his eyes as he looks back at the slide. There's a girl just older than Dorris clambering around with wild dark hair and a bright smile, and in her hand is unmistakably… something. 

Louis’ hand fumbles the door latch, a false open until he realises the door is still locked, so he yanks on the nub to unlock it, only to be harshly pulled back into his seat by the seat belt he forgot to undo. Sweaty fingers mash the buckle until he’s growling a whine at the stupid thing to just let him the fuck go and he springs free after pushing and shoving and swearing with adrenaline in the tangle of his oversized shirt. 

The girl has made it to the top of the slide by now, something gut-wrenchingly doll-shaped in her hands as she raises her arms in glee for the ride down. The toy flies from her hands at the shock of her landing, appearing a mere metre from Louis’ feet. 

It’s Harry. 

Unblinking plastic eyes stare up at him with artificial happiness. Louis’ knees weaken so badly he has to crouch to keep from tipping over. It’s Harry, it’s Harry, it’s—

Not. No. 

This much closer Louis can see a bit better, his rational side shining a last desperate plea not to be so rash, because this doll’s arms are unmistakably bare, the spot on his belly where the miniature shirt he wears has ridden up is likewise a pale expanse of untouched plastic. Not a single sharpie tattoo in sight. 

It’s Harry, but it’s not _Louis’_ Harry. 

Clammy little fingers snatch the toy from the ground. 

“Are you okay mister?” 

Louis meets the little girl’s hesitant look with a watery smile. He wipes a hand over the mess of his face. 

“Yeah, forgot to bring my own Harry is all. Miss him a bit.” 

She grins with full gap-toothed force. “You should go get him! Harry’s the best!”

“Linda!” A sharp woman with matching, though much more tamed hair, calls and the girl’s head snaps towards her. 

With an exuberant, “Bye!” and a wave, the girl rushes over to be scolded about speaking to strangers. 

Louis awkwardly looks away, not wanting to draw anymore attention to the fact that he’s a single adult man without a child in a kids’ playground. Now that is a headline Niall’s blood pressure doesn’t need. 

Just as he turns towards the car his eyes rake over the swings on the edge of the field. Something draws him back to them. Something lavender. 

“H—” The rest of the word never makes it out. 

All the R’s and Y’s and Z’s and A’s that want to come out jumble together and lodge in Louis' throat. His feet are flying over the grass, kicking up sand and chips without a sound making it past the pile-up in his throat of everything left unspoken. He knocks two empty swings aside as he dashes through the playground. 

He doesn’t need to see the face of the man seated on a low stone wall marking the boundary to the park, far enough and facing away from the kids in the playground to not appear a threat. Louis doesn’t think Harry could ever pull off threatening. His knees are bent, heels digging into the cracked brick wall he sits on, a position no doll could hold on their own. 

Louis recognizes that lavender jumper and the tousled curls. There’s wrinkles and creases in his clothes, because that’s what happens when you move, go about your day, wear the clothes that speak to who you are. Because he’s real. Harry’s real. 

He’s not a doll. 

The relief cascades over Louis in waves like the wind whipping at his face causing tears to well in the corners of his eyes. 

Harry turns, glancing over his shoulder like he can sense him coming. His gaze finds Louis.

Louis lurches to a halt.

Harry’s brows are drawn together. The look on his face reminds Louis of a discarded toy and just the thought makes him want to vomit. He did that.

There’s naught ten steps between them and suddenly it feels like an entire playground—swing set, monkey bars, the floor is lava and every game of wild imagination that is much more fun to play with a friend than alone—is laid before him.

Harry’s eyes light up in shock.

Louis steps into the lava.

He wades right through it, over every fucking melting rock and wildfire pebble, chest still heaving from his mad dash across the park.

He’s a step away when Harry’s gaze travels slowly along his body. Louis thinks no amount of baggy clothing could hide him from that open look and he doesn’t shrink from it. Instead he stands there, his eyes shut, waiting for the judgement that’s sure to come.

“You found me.”

Louis doesn’t know what to do with that single quiet sentence. The surprise in Harry’s voice, like he didn’t expect Louis to find him, has Louis forcing his eyes open despite how much he wants to keep them shut. Because seing that soft surprise hurts. Then again, with how Louis treated Harry when they last spoke, Harry’s got every right to expect nothing more from him. 

Louis opens his mouth to say something, anything, to salvage the mess he’s made. He raced out the door with thoughts of epic grand reunions and happy endings in mind, but now that he’s stood here, it feels like there are literal rivers of molten lava between them and Louis doesn’t even have a rope to cling to. 

“I couldn’t find the market,” Harry continues, turning his head away from Louis to nod across the street, no doubt the way he’d been going. There’s an uncertainty in his voice. “So I… stopped here.”

Wait.

“What?” Confusion punches the choked and breathless word past the pile-up jamming Louis’ throat. 

Harry turns back, his gaze on Louis’ hands, head tilted enough for his curls to hide his expression from Louis.

“I didn’t know where else to go. I knew you’d find me there if… once I couldn’t walk on my own anymore.” The lavender jumper he’s wearing does nothing to hide the slump of Harry’s shoulders, and Louis' already reeling at the implications of the words coming from his mouth. “But I couldn’t find the market.”

The bananas. The last time Harry had gone missing, Louis had found him beneath the bloody banana crates. The nightmare of the near possibility of finding a plastic doll beneath the produce makes him want to be sick all over again and he’s reaching for Harry before his mind catches up. 

The shoulder beneath his touch is solid, warm, alive.

“Haz… ”

He waits for Harry to cut him off, but Harry remains watching him, waiting expectantly, and it’s too much in the awkward silence Louis created himself that every single thing he wants to say, needs to say, flies straight from his mind.

Harry saves the bloody day yet again by breaking the silence first, tipping his head to the side the same way he did when Louis first put his own aviators on him and then tried to look into green eyes and only saw himself.

“Do you know the first time you called me that?” Harry asks quietly, studying Louis.

The sudden shift in topic blindsides Louis. He tightens his hold on Harry’s shoulder but it only reminds him that he’s holding on. He forces his fingers to release, drawing back. He doesn’t even know where the nickname came from, hadn’t ever realized he’d even used it. 

Careful fingers close over his wrist, the grip gentle but firm, holding his hand there even as the shoulder beneath straightens into a strong, proud line.

“When you told me what love is. When you described it to me and you asked if I felt it. When you described exactly how I was feeling about you.” Harry’s voice is softer, but no less blunt. Louis’ come to realize that’s just who he is.

“You called me Haz, Lou.” Harry’s laughing quietly now and it takes a moment for Louis to even process why he’s still speechless. 

He’s in awe. He’s in bloody awe of this man, this unpredictable man who is as far from plastic and as far from a doll as anyone with a beating heart could possibly be. Louis feels like a puppet compared to Harry, hanging onto every word because he has no idea what Harry is going to say next and he wants to know. He wants to know every fucking beautiful thought in that perfect head of curls. That must be the secret behind their shine. There’s gold inside Harry’s head and Louis would happily be a gold digger for the rest of his life if it meant he could have another glimpse inside.

“How can you know if you’re in love if you don’t know what it feels like? If you’re not born knowing what it feels like, right?” Harry asks, squeezing Louis’ wrist while all Louis can do is nod. Harry’s seated on the low standing wall, but it’s high enough to put them on the exact same level. Harry’s not looking away, his eyes tender yet intense, and it’s not a doll trait anymore. It’s Harry. It’s one hundred percent Harry.

Harry’s low chuckle doesn’t hold the mirth and delight it used to. Louis’ never been more desperate than now to do everything unimaginable to bring that untamed joy back. 

“I was born knowing it.” Harry says, dragging Louis’ heart along with his words. It’s all Louis can do to keep holding on to the anchor of Harry’s shoulder. “I felt it long before you gave me my own name and made me someone special. I feel it when we’re together, and when we’re alone-but-not-really. And I still feel it even now, even when things are going to change. I’m in love with you, Lou.” 

Louis tries to inhale. He can’t. Like a mirror has miraculously appeared inches before his nose and he’s staring at a reflection of himself, Louis can see all the ways, under the surface, Harry’s not perfect. There’s a few acne spots along his nose, wispy hairs coming in where he should probably shave, a crook to his front teeth. And under it all, really under the blinding shine, there are cracks. Just like Louis’. A cavern seen in the pained creases by his eyes and the sorrowful look on his face. 

He can’t speak. Words don’t yet exist to explain what’s right in front of him, what’s been right in front of him. 

Harry doesn’t ask Louis to say anything. It’s like maybe he knows, because he can see it too. But unlike Louis he’s found enough words to keep talking. 

“It’s everything I never could have imagined it to feel like, Lou. And I don’t ever want to stop feeling like this, even when I’m not—“ he motions to himself with the hand not latched on to Louis’, “—like this anymore.” His gaze finds Louis’, “I won’t ever stop feeling it.”

“You’re not—“ A shock of fear zips up Louis’ spine and has him leaning towards Harry when the words fall out. He steps between Harry’s knees to catch Harry’s face in both hands, feels the beginning traces of stubble on his cheeks. When he smooths his thumbs over Harry’s jaw, the movement is far steadier than the desperation he feels. “No you’re… You’re staying like this, Haz. You _have_ to fucking stay like this.”

_Don’t leave me._

Harry blinks, eyes widening again. His knees have knocked into Louis’ hips and hold him captive, but Louis has a feeling Harry’s got no idea he’s done it. Harry’s focus doesn’t stray from Louis’ face, searching, but Louis can’t tell what his furtive eyes are looking for. Will he ever learn all the crazy nuances of this gorgeous man, who is truly like no one he’s ever met before?

“You want to take me home… like this?”

Wet laughter bubbles past Louis’ lips. He strokes his thumb over the curve of Harry’s bottom lip rounded in surprise. It’s chapped. Because they spent what felt like hours kissing last night and like any human, Harry’s lips are chapped. Just like Louis’. Maybe one day he won’t be so shocked every time he discovers all the ways in which Harry captivates him. 

“I want to take you everywhere, Haz.”

It’s a desperate admission he only realizes is true after the words have come out. He knows. He knows exactly how Harry feels, because he feels it too. He’s been feeling it for days, since the first moment his baby sister walked into his bedroom hand in hand with a _stranger_ who stole Louis’ breath and heart in the exact same moment. It makes no sense. Louis’ been trying to work it out ever since but maybe, just fucking maybe, you don’t need a reason to love so deeply, so suddenly. 

Maybe love just is.

The curtain of the confessional is gone, but the words don’t stop, Louis’ emotions finally sorting themselves into something of a queue that flood out like he’s spitting up all the water he’s inhaled in his desperate bid to reach the surface again. He drops his hands to Harry’s shoulders, too tempted to stroke the fine strands at the base of Harry’s neck to keep his fingers still. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Fuck, I’m a right fucking wanker and I don’t know what I bloody did to deserve the magic that you are, but if you go back to seven inches tall I will spend the rest of my life figuring out how to fucking get you back, Haz.”

Louis pushes a wayward curl out of Harry’s eyes because he can, because he wants to.

“I want to take you everywhere. Barcelona, Paris, Rome, Los Angeles. I want to show you the fucking world because it’s is so much brighter with you in it. Because… because I love you too.” 

He shakes his head, laughing in disbelief, dropping his forehead to Harry’s and shaking it some more, just to feel the squish of curls and fringe between them. Harry’s hands find his ribs, a solid press Louis breathes into with his first smooth lungful in a week. It steadies him enough to try and continue. 

“I don’t fucking know how, I have no fucking idea how we’ll make it all work because you don’t even have a bloody birth certificate, but I fucking love you. And I was— I’m so fucking scared of losing you, Haz. And, fuck… I’m fucking sorry. Now please fucking say something before I get too in me head again.”

A quiet eternal second passes between them.

Louis squeezes his eyes shut. Harry’s knees squeeze his hips.

“Lou?”

Curious confusion is back in Harry’s voice. Louis braces.

“If you were so scared of losing me… why did you let me go?”

The laugh that escapes from Louis is just as emotional as before. He opens his eyes and pulls back enough to study Harry: the open interest in his eyes, the spark, the love, the faint smile tugging at his lips by Louis’ thumb making Louis want to kiss him, makes him want to see how many more impossible-to-answer simple questions he has. 

He has no answer. Louis wonders if he ever will. All he can do is shake his head.

“Right idiot, I was. No idea what was going through me bloody head, but I promise I won’t push you away again. Don’t ever change, Haz,” he murmurs, smoothing his thumb over Harry’s lip because he can’t help himself. “Not for me, not for any fucking person. Promise me you’ll never fucking change back unless it’s what you want.”

Beneath his touch Harry’s lips split into a wide grin, unapologetic and untempered. Blinding and overwhelming and Louis’ drowning all over again.

Harry twists enough to kiss the pad of Louis’ thumb, his hands curling in the front of Louis’ jumper to hold him in place. Louis doesn’t want to be anywhere else.

“Can I change my clothes?”

Louis snorts. Nods.

“My hair?”

Louis narrows his eyes. He has very specific opinions on that, but he nods again.

“My nail polish?”

“Any time you want, Haz. Always.”

Harry’s fingers twist tighter in Louis’ jumper, head tilting up. Louis hadn’t realized how close they were until the move makes their noses touch. Harry’s looking between his eyes and lips, and when his tongue darts out it skims over Louis’ thumb and it’s so unintentional Louis can’t help but lick his own lips. 

Harry’s final question is much softer, but no less devious and bloody hell if Louis ever says no to this one.

“Can I kiss you again?”

Louis nods, the ‘always’ poised on his lips, but the word is lost in Harry’s mouth against his. The kiss is chaste, no tongue at all, but it means everything to Louis, more perfect than their first because of the slight scrape of Harry’s chapped lips, the dry brush against his own a testament to every kiss that came before. They’ve got history now. 

Surely his entire next album will be an ode to this incredible man and his incredible heart, because Louis will never be able to write about anything else than this sheer magic. He knows without a doubt that every lyric he writes will be as true as it’s always been, because he knows what love feels like. He’s always known. It just took a Harry of his own to confirm it. Critics be fucking damned.

Their kiss is soft, it’s lingering, and when it doesn’t turn into more Louis remains satisfied with the warmth left in its wake. When they part, Harry’s released his jumper and his arms are wrapped around Louis, pulling him in against a muscled chest. The embrace of Harry’s arms around Louis says everything, and it’s everything Louis needs.

It feels like Harry knows, like he understands how hard it is for Louis to pick his words sometimes and the struggle it was to say everything he just did. It feels like a ‘thank you’, like an ‘I Love You’ in a language only a true Tomlinson would know. Louis sinks into him, pulling Harry tight into his own arms, never more sure of anything in his life than his need for this man to always be this close.

“Hey, Haz?” he murmurs, burying his face in Harry’s hair. He inhales the sweet scent of home and the musk that is distinctly Harry and thinks he’ll never be able to separate the two. The thought has him smiling into Harry’s curls. He tightens his hold, feels Harry’s arms tighten around him in return in a silent question. “Has anyone ever told you you’re the perfect boyfriend?”

A chuckle rumbles through the chest pressed against his own and sets Louis’ heart throbbing, only for Harry’s mumbled response against his neck to explode it into a million pieces of I’m so fucking in love with him.

“Only for you, Lou.”

A wild herd of elephants sends the whole house shaking as Louis opens the front door to step inside.

Dorris thunders down the stairs, jumps the last two, and lands a perfect ten with one giant whump before she freezes, staring at them with blinding delight.

Louis tightens his hold on Harry’s hand, their fingers laced together. Harry squeezes back and out of the corner of his eye Louis catches him holding a finger to his lips as he winks at Dorris.

Dorris giggles, hands flying up in front of her face before she nods enthusiastically.

“Boo? Is that you?”

“Yea, mum,” Louis calls into the kitchen, about to make his way there when mum pokes her head out. 

She blinks, looks between Harry and Louis and their joined hands, then leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest. 

“And who is this?”

Louis grins, stepping further into the house so Harry can close the door behind them.

“This is Harry, mum. Harry,” he turns to Harry and winks himself, close enough that mum can’t see it. “This is my mum.”

“Call me Jay,” she cuts in, breezing out of the kitchen to extend a hand to Harry. “I’ve put the kettle on and supper’s nearly finished. I think we’ll be having tea for quite some time now.” 

She eyes Louis and Louis rolls his own, but he and Harry had time to come up with something in the car on the way home. 

The moment they sit down Dorris plops herself onto Harry’s lap, arms crossing over her chest as she stares up at him, putting on her best suspicious face.

“So _you’re_ Harry.”

“Dorris!” Mum sounds appalled but Harry laughs, shaking his head.

“It’s alright. I don’t mind. Hi, I’m Harry.”

Louis snorts, grinning at the antics of his sister and her best fri… no, _his_ boyfriend. That sends his heart skidding in his chest and he looks away from them. He hopes he’s not flushing too much in delight because that would definitely ruin the joke he’s about to make.

“Haz is really good with kids, mum.”

Dorris winks at the two of them and it’s a really good thing she’s got her back to mum because she hasn’t quite mastered the subtle wink yet.

As mum asks Harry the opening salvo of questions that every mum on principle seems to have to ask, Dorris makes herself comfortable on Harry’s lap, more than content to stay on her throne, it appears, and most definitely on the side closest to Louis, so she’s very much sitting between them without actually having her own seat.

Louis arches a brow at his little sister at the obvious display. She arches one right back at him. She’s learning his tricks way too quickly. 

Trying to hide a smirk, he leans in and whispers to her, “Think he likes me more now.”

Dorris pokes him in the side. She definitely learned that one from Lottie.

“I think you owe me a new Harry now.”

Louis owes her the world, but right now she doesn’t need to know that.

“Will you forgive me then?”

Dorris taps at her bottom lip, hmm’ing and haw’ing while staring at the ceiling for effect before she levels a look that’s all mum at him.

“Only if he comes with every outfit and every accessory, and any that come out later too.”

Louis lets out a laugh that interrupts Harry and mum and has them both looking over curiously.

Harry grins, idly tugging the sleeves of his jumper up before finding Louis’ hand and lacing their fingers together.

“What’d I miss?”

“We’ll fill you in later,” Dorris quips, wriggling on his lap. 

She’s extremely proud of herself for making her brother laugh, that much is obvious.

Harry’s eyes light up. “But we’re already having tea!”

“Well there’s no chocolate cake!”

“There’s always chocolate cake. It’s all over your face again!“ Harry thumbs at the corner of Dorris’ lip until the imperious look is gone because she’s too busy giggling and swatting at his hand.

“ _Harry_ ,” she whines, scrunching up her nose. 

Harry scrunches his right back at her and they both start laughing. .

Louis only looks away from them when mum narrows her eyes, watching them. She scrutinizes the tattoos visible on Harry’s arm, smile playing about her lips before Louis can smack his newly-declared boyfriend and tell him to cover up. 

“For some reason you seem awfully familiar, Harry. Have we met before?”

Louis bites his tongue as Dorris and Harry are set off on another round of poorly contained laughter. 

Another story for another day.

**Author's Note:**

> Like/Reblog the Tumblr [post](https://mercurial-madhouse.tumblr.com/post/643101397804580864/take-me-everywhere-25k-co-written-by) to spread the joy!
> 
> xx Thanks for reading! Please let us know what you thought in a comment xx


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